


Ashes and Sparks

by DanceLikeAnArchitect



Series: Songbird's Sergeant [1]
Category: Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms, Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Songbird AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanceLikeAnArchitect/pseuds/DanceLikeAnArchitect
Summary: In which Morse finds in Lewis a home he didn’t know he needed, and then must discover how much he fears losing it.Sergeant Robert Lewis and Chief Inspector Endeavour Morse are two very different sorts of people. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, their partnership is like a spark rising from the ashes. Morse trusts Lewis's instincts, and Lewis trusts Morse’s skill. The question is: can they learn to rely on each other's friendship as well?
Relationships: Robert Lewis & Inspector Morse, Robert Lewis/Inspector Morse, Robert Lewis/Valerie Lewis
Series: Songbird's Sergeant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795798
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Songbird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568109) by [athena_crikey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey). 



> Inspired by the Songbird AU created by athena_crikey and continued by Jemisard and coldlikedeath. If you are not familiar with the Songbird AU, I would highly recommend giving the other works a read--they are all excellent.
> 
> *UPDATE 11/6/20  
> Aaaand we're back! Second half of the story is mostly written, and will be posted pretty much weekly for the rest of November. I hope you enjoy!  
> Thank you [Figure_of_Dismay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Figure_of_Dismay/profile) for jumping in to beta read and help me with plotting!!

“It is our will  
That thus enchains us to permitted ill.  
We might be otherwise, we might be all  
We dream of happy, high, majestical.  
Where is the love, beauty and truth we seek,  
But in our mind? and if we were not weak,  
Should we be less in deed than in desire?”  
-Percy Bysshe Shelley

“A bird is three things: Feathers, flight and song, And feathers are the least of these.”  
-Marjorie Allen Seiffert

Sergeant Robert Lewis and Chief Inspector Endeavour Morse were two extremely different sorts of people. Sergeant Lewis was a kind, cheerful, down-to-earth copper from Tyneside, happily married with two young children. He enjoyed watching sports, particularly cricket, listened to rock n roll, didn’t have strong opinions on beer versus lager, and never really troubled himself about the philosophical minutiae of his job. His job as a copper was to catch the bad guys and make the world a more just place. Simple as that.

Chief Inspector Morse, on the other hand, was a prickly, sardonic, Oxford-educated man. Still single in his late forties, his greatest pleasures in life were classical music (especially Wagner), crosswords and puzzles, ale and fine liquor, poetry, and his vintage Jaguar Mark 2. He always worried about the moral and philosophical minutiae of his job, often needled a long-suffering Sergeant Lewis over his inexperience with music and literature, and was generally considered a “morose old bastard” by his co-workers at Thames Valley Police. He also happened to be a songbird.

Given all that, Morse and Lewis rubbed along as comfortably as could be expected. In fact, to the surprise of the whole Thames Valley station—especially Chief Superintendent Strange—they ended up forming quite a good team. Having a permanent sergeant steadied Morse—it often forced him to explain his wild intellectual leaps and strange deductions before he acted upon them. Lewis, in turn, honed his detective skills under Morse’s watchful (and often critical) eye. Lewis was intelligent, diligent, and kind. More importantly, Morse trusted his instincts, and Lewis trusted Morse’s skill.

Despite spending most working moments in each other’s company, Morse and Lewis kept their personal lives more or less secret from one another. Morse, ever conscious of songbirds’ former reputation as homewreckers, felt awkward at the thought of getting to know Lewis’s family. Lewis, likewise, felt far too uncomfortable to ask Morse about his own personal life. Even though songbirds had been considered full legal persons for more than a decade by the time he started working for Morse, their lives as autonomous individuals were mostly shrouded in mystery. Songbirds generally had the same status as superstars. Many were fortunate enough to find partners to provide them with the affection they needed to survive, whereas others still marketed themselves as high-end prostitutes to the ultra-wealthy. Others, including Morse (as far as Lewis could tell), relied on Friendship Centres—safe spaces where songbirds could feed from unknown volunteers. No fuss, no strings, no entanglements. Still, it seemed a lonely life to Lewis, used to the constant, uncomplicated physical affection he received from his wife. If he felt he’d be lonely without Val, he imagined it would be much worse if he literally depended upon her affection for survival.

Still, Lewis kept his curiosity, and the slightest bit of concern for his boss, to himself. Morse had made it perfectly plain over their year of partnership so far that he had no patience for impertinent questions about his nature. And so the two of them might have continued for years, keeping their private lives private, too uncertain to rely on each other’s friendship. That is, had it not been for one strange day at Magdalen College.

It was an unusually fine morning in the middle of March, the sun warming the earth with the first hint of spring. The warmth was almost enough to tempt Lewis to remove his winter coat as he hurried across the lawn of Magdalen College in Inspector Morse’s wake, towards where the recently-discovered body of some poor undergraduate was waiting for them. _It’s such a lovely day, far too lovely for a murder_ reflected Lewis regretfully. The heat of the day did not seem to have touched Lewis’s guv. Morse scowled and shivered slightly, drawing his coat more tightly around him as he marched across the beautifully manicured grass.

The pair proceeded up the taped-off staircase, Lewis holding the tape up for Morse to duck under first. He did so with a sigh, not bothering to thank his sergeant. With an internal shrug, Lewis followed his guv up the stairs.

“The deceased is one Madeleine Wade,” Lewis informed Morse as they climbed to the second floor. “Student, studying physics.”

“Oh, excellent, a scientist. None of that classics nonsense for her. You must approve, Lewis,” grumbled Morse.

Lewis cast Morse’s back a longsuffering look. So it was one of _those_ days, then. “She was found by her friend about two hours ago when she didn’t turn up for their planned outing,” Lewis continued.

“Cause of death?”

“Dunno yet, sir.”

“You ‘dunno’. Really, Lewis, can’t I even rely on you to get the basic facts straight?” groused Morse.

Lewis paused halfway up the last flight of stairs, glaring at Morse in undisguised frustration. What had ruffled the songbird’s feathers today? “Well, I’m not a pathologist, _sir._ ”

On the uppermost landing, Morse turned to cast Lewis a withering look. In the warm light of the staircase Lewis noticed deep shadows under Morse’s eyes, as though he had not slept for days. The frown lines of his face seemed more pronounced than usual, and he had an air of exhaustion about him. Before Morse could form a comeback, however, a young PC approached them.

“This way, sir. Dr. DeBryn is waiting for you.”

With an aggravated sign, Morse turned to follow the PC. Ever dutiful, Lewis trailed after him.

The dorm room of Madeleine Wade was a mess. Possessions were strewn pell-mell across the floor, many of them splattered with blood. Between the bed and the desk lay the badly beaten and bloodied body of a young girl with black hair. Max DeBryn was crouching over the form, lifting a wrist for closer examination. Morse stopped abruptly in the doorway, gripping the frame and face turning, if possible, even paler than before.

“Ah, Morse,” said Max, looking up at their arrival. “Took you long enough.”

“Well I wasn’t exactly expecting a call-out on my day off,” Morse replied, stepping gingerly into the room and leaning against the far wall. Lewis followed him through the door and began cataloguing everything he saw.

“What can you tell me so far?” sighed Morse, glancing once at the body and then away with a shudder.

“Cause of death was probably one of more than a dozen stab wounds to the torso, penetrating most internal organs,” Max declared crisply. “I’m not sure I could tell you which one proved to be the fatal blow—any alone could have done the trick.”

Lewis glanced down at the body and winced at what he saw. It was not a pretty sight.

“What d’you think was used for a weapon?” Lewis asked the pathologist

“I can’t determine precisely right now, but I’d estimate it was a single-edged blade, between six and twelve inches long.” Lewis glanced at Morse, wanting to see what he made of the information. Morse, however, was gazing at the floor with unfocused eyes. Lewis frowned at his boss’s unusual inattention.

“Time of death was between midnight and four AM last night,” Max continued, straightening up and beginning to peel off his gloves. “I cannot be more precise until the post-mortem, and possibly not even then.”

Morse made a noncommittal grunt, running his hand through his hair and glancing distractedly around the small, messy room.

“What, no demands for more information than I am professionally able to provide?” asked Max incredulously, peering at Morse over the rim of his glasses.

Morse merely waved a vague hand in Max’s direction and slowly meandered out of the room.

Lewis and Max exchanged startled, concerned looks. “What’s the matter with him?” asked Max in an undertone, jerking a thumb towards the door Morse had just vanished through.

“No idea,” murmured Lewis, genuine concern for the songbird starting to overwhelm his irritation. “I’d better—” Lewis gestured out the door.  
“Yes, you’d better,” replied Max, giving Lewis a darkly significant look. “Post-mortem at three? Excellent. Let me know if you have any problems, won’t you?” With one last significant glance, Max turned to address his assistant, discussing the logistics of moving the young woman’s body.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Lewis set out in pursuit of his boss.

Morse, it transpired, had not gotten far. Lewis found him leaning against the windowsill in the hall, gazing pensively out over the college grounds. Lewis approached slowly. He noticed as he did that Morse’s arm was trembling slightly where it was braced against the sill. “Ready to head back then, sir?” he enquired tentatively.

Morse seemed to come out of his reverie, taking a deep breath and turning to face his sergeant. “Yes, Lewis, I suppose we’d better,” Morse replied, straightening up as though it took a great deal of effort.

Lewis cast the songbird one more concerned glance before turning to lead the way down the stairs.

“I’ll head back to the station and start pulling the relevant files, if that’s alright sir,” Lewis said as he began the descent. “Perhaps she has family nearby who can help identify the body.” Lewis paused, waiting for Morse’s response. It didn’t come.

“Sir?” asked Lewis, turning to look back up the stairs.

Morse, who had looked pale before, now looked positively grey. As Lewis watched Morse’s eyes flickered shut and he swayed worryingly, planting one hand on the wall of the staircase to steady himself.

“Sir!” cried Lewis in alarm, dashing back up the stairs to catch the songbird’s elbow before Morse could lose his footing. As soon as he made contact with Morse’s arm, he felt an odd tingling in his palm. “Sir, are you alright?”

Morse’s eyes snapped open and he took a shaky breath, gazing at Lewis with brilliant, puzzled blue eyes. “I…” he started, then blinked several times. “I will be, Lewis. Here, help me sit.”

Confused, Lewis gently lowered his boss to sit on the floor of the landing, leaning back against the wall. After settling the songbird, Lewis made to move away, knowing how sensitive Morse was about being touched. Morse, however, trapped Lewis’s hand with both of his own, tugging him down to sit beside him. “No, no, Lewis, you stay here,” Morse instructed, keeping a firm grip on Lewis’s hand while letting his head fall sideways onto Lewis’s shoulder.

“Sir?” asked Lewis, still extremely puzzled by this uncharacteristic turn of events.

“Shhh,” Morse chided, briefly flapping one of his hands in Lewis’s direction before dropping it to rest on Lewis’s own again. “Just give me a moment.”

Lewis quieted and watched as Morse’s eyes drifted closed. The songbird’s colour was already starting to return, his face losing its grey, tired cast and returning to the milk-and-honey tones Lewis was used to. Lewis’s palm still tingled lightly where Morse touched it, as did the shoulder Morse was leaning on. This close, Lewis could not help but notice the scent of Morse’s skin—honey, sandalwood, and musk, incredibly alluring. He had to concentrate hard not to lean down and kiss the songbird, bite him, claim him as his own. Luckily his concern for Morse made it easier to resist the songbird’s seductive pull.

Then, after about five minutes, Morse opened his eyes and sat up. “That’s much better—thank you, Lewis,” he said almost cheerfully, then scrambled to his feet and started down the rest of the staircase. Lewis, now truly baffled, hastily clambered to his feet to follow his guv.  
“’Thank you’ for what, sir?” he asked.

Morse paused, turning at the bottom of the stairs to gaze at Lewis with an incredulous arch of his brow. In the spring sunshine his blue eyes glittered like a mountain lake. “For the affection, of course,” he replied, before turning and striding off across the sunlit lawn in the direction of the jag.

Realization struck Lewis then, causing him to stumble down the last few steps and catch himself on the wall in amazement. _The affection_. Morse had just fed from him, from _him._ He, Robbie Lewis, a normal bloke from Tyneside, had just fed a songbird.

* * *

Morse was hungry. Hungry, irritable, and blaming himself for both. He really should have gone to the Friendship Centre days ago, but his pride had gotten in the way, as it always did. He always hated the mild taste of pity buried deep in the volunteers’ affection, so had stayed away. And now, half-starved, he was paying the price for his pride and foolishness.

He had meant to go today, but then had been woken far too early in the morning on his day off by a call out to yet another dead body. How on earth Oxford could support so many suspicious deaths was beyond him. _After all the work I’ve put in over the years, how can there be any murderers left to catch?_ reflected Morse grumpily as he surveyed the tiny dorm room at Magdalen college, doing his best to studiously ignore Lewis’s hurt and indignant look. He knew he shouldn’t have snapped at his sergeant, but he was in no mood to gracefully deal with Lewis’s relentless good humour.

Then he caught sight of the body of what had been a beautiful young woman, brutally stabbed and covered in blood. Dizziness surged through him and he gripped the doorframe for balance. Starvation and dead bodies were not a good combination. Feeling distinctly lightheaded from both hunger and nausea now, Morse tried his best to pay attention to what Max was saying, but found his focus slipping away. Could he ask Max to go outside with him for a few minutes? Max, who had known him for so many years, surely would be willing to help him now? But his pride rebelled at the thought. He just had to finish at the crime scene and send Lewis back to the nick. Then he could slip away to the Friendship Centre. An hour, maybe two. Surely, he could make it that long.

The dizziness did not abate upon leaving the corpse behind, however. Perhaps he should have asked Max for help after all. But, no, he was too stubborn.

This wasn’t the first time his stubbornness had gotten him in to trouble reflected Morse wryly, trying to ignore his spinning head as he made his way carefully down the stairs. Lewis was talking to him, he realized. Attempting to focus, he caught Lewis saying "...identify the body." Morse's mind jumped to an image of the battered corpse lying upstairs and immediately his vision started to swim. Overwhelmed by hunger and nausea, Morse lost track of the world for a moment as he tried not to black out. How embarrassing would that be, in front of Lewis.

Then, a touch. The first feelings Morse read from the touch were alarm and concern, but buried deep under that….

Affection. There was affection in the touch. Morse opened his eyes to find himself gazing into the concerned face of his young Geordie sergeant, whose hand upon his elbow was sending a wonderfully sweet current of affection and strength flowing back into his tired body. “I…” Morse stammered, temporarily dumbstruck at the revelation that his sergeant felt genuine regard for him. He felt an answering swell of tenderness in his own chest and their bond expanded, drawing in Lewis’s energy at such a rate that Morse wondered if the other man could not feel it leaving his body. “I will be, Lewis,” Morse finished at length. “Here, help me sit.”

Morse could not deny that he felt slightly self-conscious, sitting here and allowing his sergeant to feed him. However, he had not tasted genuine affection so untainted by pity, lust, or both in more years than he cared to count. It instantly refreshed and revived him, taking the edge off his gnawing hunger and exhaustion. As warmth flooded into him from Lewis, Morse wished that he could sit here for hours. Unfortunately, though, they had a murderer to catch, and Lewis would eventually become even more confused than he already was. Regretfully, Morse reconstructed the armour around his allure and pulled himself to his feet. “That’s much better—thank you, Lewis,” he said lightly as he started down the stairs, hoping the exact depth of his gratitude was not evident in his tone. No need for Lewis to get a big head.

His sergeant, however, displaying what Morse considered to be an incredible amount of pig-headedness, was still confused as to what had transpired. Morse turned to him, incredulous. How could Lewis have missed what had just happened? “For the affection, of course,” Morse said. Then he turned away, too cowardly to watch the expression on Lewis’s face as he connected the dots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, my first attempt at a multi-chapter work! I'd say this is about 60-70% written, hopefully I'll be able to update with new chapters once a week. Looking to be about 8-10 chapters. I hope you enjoy! Comments/ideas/thoughts/etc welcome!  
> The title, Ashes and Sparks, is taken from another Percy Shelley poem, Ode to the West Wind.


	2. Chapter 2

Once Morse and Lewis had returned to the nick, the two men buried themselves in investigation, deliberately ignoring the oddness of the morning. Soon Madeleine Wade’s whole life was laid out before them on the surface of their desks. Straight-A student, avid dancer, passion for science. She was in her second year at Magdalen. A bright future cut off before it could bloom.

“We should talk to Angela Lawson and Rochelle Newbury,” commented Lewis, flipping through the crime scene report. “It says here that Angela had found Madeleine Wade’s body, and that Madeleine was meant to meet the pair of them for a trip to London today.”

“Back to the college it is, then,” remarked Morse, picking up his coat as he prepared to set out. “Let’s see if we can’t get some useful information from her friends. Come on!” Not waiting to see if Lewis was following, Morse swept from the office. Lewis sighed in resignation, then trailed after the songbird towards the carpark.

The two coppers met the two students in a small café by the college. Angela’s face was flushed, Rochelle’s pale. Both seemed rather shaken by the morning’s tragedy.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Morse began when all four were seated with their beverage of choice. “As we mentioned, we’re here in connection with the murder of Madeleine Wade. We just need to ask you a few routine questions.”

Both girls nodded. Rochelle gave a quiet sniffle over her coffee. 

“Firstly, can you tell me where you both were last night?” enquired Morse

“Well,” said Rochelle, casting a quick glance at Angela before continuing, “I went to bed early after dinner, round about 9:30 or 10? You can confirm with my scout, she saw me going up to my room after dinner.”

“And you, Ms. Lawson?” asked Morse as Lewis jotted down the information in his notebook.

“Same as Rochelle,” replied Angela. “I knew we had to be up early today to go London.”

“When was the last time each of you saw Madeleine Wade?”

“Yesterday after lecture, around four,” replied Rochelle.

“Same,” returned Angela, too quickly.

“No, didn’t you say you were going over to see her about some trip logistics after dinner?” contradicted Rochelle.

“Oh, yeah, I went and knocked on her door around 9 maybe? But she wasn’t there,” amended Angela, not meeting any of their eyes.

Morse cast a quick sideways look at Lewis, who raised his own eyebrows in return as he continued to scribble in his notebook.

“Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm Madeleine?” As Morse asked the question, Lewis suddenly became exceedingly aware of the songbird’s presence at his side. Against his better judgement, Lewis snuck a sideways glance at Morse, then found himself unable to look away. Morse was allowing a tiny part of his true allure to shine through his normally flawless armour, and he practically glowed in the dim light of the café. Lewis found himself gazing greedily at Morse’s handsome profile, the way the strong muscles of his arms filled the fabric of his suit jacket, his capable yet beautiful hands gently cradling his drink. Then Morse kicked him in the shin under the table, and the spell was broken. Slightly abashed, leg still smarting, Lewis returned his gaze to Angela and Rochelle. The former had also been apparently ensnared by the songbird’s charm, as she was staring at Morse with her mouth slightly agape and a rather hungry look in her eyes. Rochelle, on the other hand, was regarding her friend in some confusion, seemingly unaffected by Morse’s supernaturally attractive pull.

“Ms. Lawson?” prompted Morse. Lewis risked half a glance sideways and noticed that Morse had once again supressed his seductive pull so as to make him seem almost ordinary.

Angela blinked, coming out of her stupor. “No, I… I don’t think there was anyone. She was always so nice!”

Rochelle nodded her assent, but Lewis noticed that she was still watching Angela rather suspiciously.

Morse nodded in acknowledgement. “Do you know of anyone else we should speak to who may be able to help us?”

“Andrew,” said Rochelle at once. Angela shot her a brief, irritated look before she saw Lewis watching her and quickly schooled her face back to neutrality.

“Oh, yes, of course, you should speak to Andrew,” Angela said, trying and failing to sound casual. “Andrew Garret, her boyfriend.”

Morse raised an eyebrow and Lewis jotted a note in his pad. “How long have they been going out?” Lewis asked.

“Since the fall,” replied Rochelle. Angela pursed her lips and frowned at the table.

“Do you not get along with Andrew Garret, Angela?” asked Morse, picking up on her expression.

Angela looked up, startled. “Oh, no, he’s very kind! I just didn’t think, well—” She glanced around, then leaned forward and continued in a conspiratorial tone. “I just didn’t think they were a very well-matched couple, is all. Lots of rows, you know.”

Morse was watching Angela intently and nodding along. Lewis, however, glanced towards Rochelle, who was once again regarding her friend with some suspicion.

“Well, thank you both very much for your help,” concluded Morse, fishing in the pocket of his suit and handing each of them a business card. “If you think of anything else that might be of use, please don’t hesitate to call.” As the four of them made for the café door, Morse began a conversation with Angela about her studies in music. Lewis made to follow his guv onto the street, but was surprised to be addressed from behind.

“Sergeant? Mr. Lewis?”

Lewis turned to see Rochelle, beckoning him closer with a nervous look on her face.

Curious, Lewis approached. “Yes, Ms. Newbury?”

Rochelle took a deep breath, bit her lip, and then began to speak in a low, urgent rush. “Angela wasn’t telling you everything just now. What she didn’t mention is that she used to go out with Andrew, before he ditched her and started going out with Madeleine. Angela’s been super cut up, she’s been crying to me at least one night a week all term about it.” Rochelle glanced nervously out the window to check that Angela was out of earshot, then continued. “Also, she’s been acting super weird around Madeleine these last couple days. Snapping at random little things, you know. Like she’s super mad at her for something. I’d wondered if they hadn’t had a row, you know, over Andrew,” she concluded in a half whisper.

Lewis felt incredibly sorry for the poor girl. It had to be very hard, betraying her friend’s secret to the police. “Thank you very much for telling me, Rochelle,” he said kindly. “Like the inspector said, don’t hesitate to call our office if you think of anything else we should know.”

Rochelle nodded, gave him a brief, shy smile, then hurried out the door and after Angela.

Lewis caught up with Morse, who was already back at the jag and seated in the driver’s seat. “Where to now, sir?” he asked. “Should we try to find Andrew Garret?”

“Back to the pathology lab first, I think,” replied Morse, starting the ignition as Lewis slid into the passenger seat. “We’ve had a radio—Max says he has some results for us.”

The bright spring sunlight was streaming in through the high mortuary windows, lending the normally sterile room an almost cheerful feeling.

“Ah, Morse,” greeted Max upon their arrival. “Good timing, I’m just finishing.”

Morse cast a wary glance towards the sheet-draped figure before fully entering the room. “What do you have for me, Max?” he inquired.

“As noted at the crime scene, the victim was killed by over a dozen stab wounds to the torso and back, which were made with an approximately eight-inch, single-edged blade. Judging by the shape, I would guess a kitchen knife of some sort. Time of death was approximately two AM.”

“We _knew_ all that already, Max. Don’t you have anything new?” complained Morse.

Max cast his old friend a withering look before continuing. “Her killer was probably the same height as her or shorter. The blade penetrated the body at an almost exactly perpendicular angle. If the murderer had been significantly taller, one would expect to see a more downward angle in the wounds.”

“Can you be sure about that?” asked Morse sceptically. “Couldn’t it just mean that she was stabbed while lying down instead of standing?”

“Ah, questioning my findings! Feeling better than this morning, are we?” commented Max, raising his eyebrows at Morse over his glasses.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” replied Morse, waving a hand dismissively. “I was just…well, you know.”

“Half-starved?” Max snorted in derision as he began to clear up. “Well, be sure to feed properly before your next dead body, Morse. I have quite enough to do at crime scenes without peeling you off the floor, as well.”

Morse rolled his eyes expressively at Max’s back, then jerked his head at Lewis, indicating it was time for them to go.

“So, Lewis, what did you think of our two undergraduates?” asked Morse as they strolled along the halls of Thames Valley station, heading back to their office.

“Well, they both seemed pretty cut-up,” Lewis began.

Morse snorted, cutting him off. “ _Both_ were cut-up, Lewis? Angela was hardly what I’d describe as distraught.”

“What, just because she got all tongue-tied when you tried to charm her?” asked Lewis.

“As I’ve explained, there’s a limit to whom I can, as you put it, ‘charm’,” said Morse patiently. “Those who are truly grieving are generally immune to a songbird’s pull.”

“So you think she’s not really grieving for Madeleine?”

“Exactly, Lewis,” replied Morse, pulling open the door to their office and striding into the room. “Now we just need to figure out why.”

“Well, I may have an idea about that, sir,” Lewis said, following Morse into the office and perching on the edge of his desk rather than sitting behind it.

“Really, Lewis? What’s that?” asked Morse, settling into his own desk chair with a slight groan.

“When you were walking ahead with Angela, Rochelle pulled me aside for a second,” Lewis explained. “She told me that she thought Angela had been acting rather oddly around Madeleine over the past few days. Like she was mad at her? She also told me that earlier this term Angela spent lots of late nights crying on her shoulder about Andrew, and all. So it seems like maybe there were some hard feelings between Madeleine and Angela, even if Madeleine didn’t realize.”

Morse ran a hand over his mouth, eyes out of focus as he considered this. As his focus shifted from controlling his allure to puzzling over the clues, Lewis had a hard time tearing his gaze away from his boss.

“Come on Lewis, let’s go!” called Morse suddenly, grabbing his coat of the back of his chair and shrugging it on over his suit.

“Go where?” asked Lewis, scrambling to follow.

“To search Angela Lawson’s room, of course!” replied Morse, turning at the door to raise his eyebrows at his sergeant before striding off down the hall.

“Why Angela?” asked Lewis, hurrying to keep up with Morse’s quick strides.

“Morse’s Law, Lewis!” called Morse, already halfway to the exit. “There’s a fifty percent chance that the person who found the body is the murderer, remember?”

* * *

Much to Morse’s delight, his Law turned out to be quite correct. A search of Angela’s room unearthed blood-spattered clothes and a gory kitchen knife, which matched the marks on Madeleine’s body perfectly. More damning still, the handle was covered in Angela’s fingerprints.

The search for Angela Lawson did not last long. Almost instantly upon stepping into the college, Morse and Lewis spotted Angela and Andrew making their slow way across the lawn. Andrew’s face was pale with grief, whereas Angela’s gaze was fixed on him with predatory intent.

“Angela Lawson?” called Morse, stepping towards the couple. Angela glanced up, recognized Morse and Lewis. A look of panic spread over her face. Instantly dropping Andrew’s arm, Angela sprinted away towards the gate and the high street beyond.

“Oi!” shouted Lewis, starting to sprint after her. Morse and Andrew exchanged looks for less than a heartbeat, then both tore off in pursuit of the others. Angela had made it to the gates of the college. She ducked around the corner and out of site, Lewis close on her heels. Internally cursing the young and energetic, Morse dashed across the last few yards separating him from the college gate.

Just as he reached it, a loud, blaring horn sounded. Morse rounded the corner to see Angela frozen still as a statue in the middle of High Street, directly in the path of an oncoming tour bus. 

“No!” cried Lewis, heroically lunging forward. He seized the back of Angela’s jacket and heaved her bodily out of harm’s way, both of them crashing to the pavement of the sidewalk in a jumble of limbs. Morse hurried forward as Lewis sat up, keeping a firm grip on Angela’s arm as he did so. By the time Morse reached them, Lewis was cautioning Angela while securing her hands in front of her with a pair of cuffs, both still sitting on the sidewalk. Morse helped Angela to her feet, then turned to offer Lewis his hand in turn. As he tugged Lewis up, Morse cast a brief, worried look over his sergeant. Besides a scraped palm and streaks of dust all over his suit, Lewis appeared fine. “Good work, Lewis,” Morse said lightly. “Now, let’s finish this down at the station, shall we?”

Once she was installed safely in an interview room at the nick, Angela’s confession emerged almost instantly in strangled sobs. Case closed.

Feeling especially pleased with the results of the day, Morse offered to buy the first round at the White Horse that night. Two pints in hand, he wove his way back to the dim but cosy corner where Lewis had established himself. Placing one pint in front of his sergeant, Morse settled in the seat opposite him and took a long swallow of ale. _Ah, excellent_. Morse wasn’t sure exactly where over the years he had acquired such a thirst for ale, given the fact that he did not need to drink it. Not even a songbird could not deny, however, that this was an excellent pint. “Drink up, Lewis!” Morse encouraged brightly. “You deserve this, you did excellent work today!”

Lewis smiled shyly and took the first small sip of his pint.

“Are you alright, Lewis? You’re very quiet.”

“Yeah, I think so, sir,” replied Lewis, not meeting Morse’s eyes but tracing the beads of condensation on his still mostly full glass. “It’s just, this morning, I was wondering—” Lewis broke off, glancing up at Morse and then away again.  
Morse’s heart sank faster than a lead-weighted corpse thrown in the Cherwell. Well, he supposed he knew Lewis would ask him questions eventually. “Go on, Lewis,” he said, both apprehensive and resigned. “You were wondering…?”

“That’s what was wrong, at the crime scene? You were hungry?” Lewis glanced up, looking almost as apprehensive as Morse felt.

Morse nodded. “I was starving. I hadn’t fed in almost a week. I should have gone to the Friendship Centre days ago, but—” Morse broke off, shrugging to indicate his distaste for the place.

“And I… I helped?” Morse glanced up at his sergeant. Lewis’s expression was endearingly hesitant.

“Yes, you did help,” rumbled Morse, looking down at the table but letting the sound of a smile slip into his voice. “You helped very much.” It was hard to look at Lewis, but Morse forced himself to meet his sergeant’s eyes. “Thank you, Lewis,” he said sincerely. Morse didn’t often let Lewis know how much he appreciated him, but he thought today, especially, his sergeant deserved to know.

Lewis tried to hide a pleased smile behind his glass. “Ah, it’s fine sir,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal.

Feeling distinctly awkward after his unusual display of emotions, Morse took refuge in another deep drink of beer.

“Just one more question, sir?” asked Lewis

Morse raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Lewis?”

“Why did it tingle?”

Morse blinked, perplexed. “Tingle?” he repeated.

“Yeah, where I touched you,” Lewis held up his hand and waved it at Morse. “It tingled, like when you first warm up your hands when they’re cold.”

Morse was baffled. Never, in his forty-eight years, had anyone he’d fed from told him that it “tingled”. In fact, he had been under the impression that humans could not sense the energy that songbirds drew from them at all. “It tingled?” Morse asked again, incredulously.

“Well, yeah,” returned Lewis, frowning. “Why, is it not supposed to?”

“Well, I don’t know about ‘supposed to’, Lewis, but it’s bloody strange that it did,” said Morse, sitting back and frowning at his sergeant in consternation. “I’ve never heard anyone say that feeding a songbird comes with any sensations attached.”

“Oh,” Lewis blinked, puzzled.

Now curious, Morse leaned forward, holding his hand out across the table to Lewis. “Here, Lewis, take my hand,” he instructed.

Also curious, Lewis obliged, gripping Morse’s hand with his own. Instantly Morse sensed warm energy flooding into him from where their palms touched. Morse felt his eyes begin to drift closed with pleasure. Lewis’s affection felt so _good_. Forcing himself to concentrate, however, he looked up at Lewis. “Does it tingle now?” he asked.

Lewis closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. After a moment, he replied “not so much now, I think… yeah, now it mostly just feels warm.”

“Fascinating,” murmured Morse, relaxing his fingers to indicate that Lewis could reclaim his own hand. After a moment, he did so. Morse tried not to miss the warmth of Lewis’s fingers as he withdrew his arm and drained his pint. “I wonder if the intensity of the sensation has anything to do with the degree of need of the songbird…” Morse trailed off thoughtfully.

“So most people don’t feel it?” asked Lewis, also draining his pint.

“Apparently you’re a singularity, Lewis.”

“Does that mean you’re buying another round?” Lewis quipped, pushing his empty glass to the middle of the table.

Morse couldn’t suppress a small snort of laughter as he stood and reached for his wallet. “Just this once, Lewis. Don’t get used to it.”

* * *

It was dark when Lewis finally made it home that night. As soon as he walked through the door the children tumbled down the stairs and swarmed him with hugs and clamours for attention. Lewis smiled and exclaimed over Lyn’s piano progress and Patrick’s school artwork until Val shooed the children upstairs, telling them their father deserved to eat his supper in peace. 

After the dishes were done and the children were in bed Lewis sank down onto the sofa with a groan, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He felt Val settle beside him, and wordlessly held out his hand for her to take. She did, wrapping her small, warm fingers through his and squeezing his hand gently. “Rough day, love?” she asked.

“Mmmm… not so much rough as strange,” he replied, turning his head and opening his eyes to look at her.

“How so?” she asked, squeezing his hand sympathetically.

Robbie sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. “Well, Morse just about passed out from hunger today, so, so I… I fed him.”

“You fed him?” Lewis glanced sideways at his wife. Val was gazing at him with some puzzlement.

“Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t anything—you know—I just sat with him for a while, like. There was nothing—you know--”

Lewis was anxious to make sure Val understood. Even now, when it was common knowledge that songbirds did not need to be fed sex to survive, many people still maintained the prejudice that feeding a songbird entailed explicit acts. It was this misconception that had partially supported songbird enslavement for all those dark years. The idea that they must be “kept” by one owner, and that their sole purpose in existing was for the pleasure of humans, was outdated, but, unfortunately, still commonly held.

“No ‘rumpy-pumpy’, then,” Val chuckled, quoting a euphemism of Lewis’s that she found particularly endearing. “Don’t worry, love, I know you wouldn’t let Morse turn your head like that.”

Lewis smiled. How had he gotten so lucky with Val? “Of course, typical Morse, he didn’t seem to think it was a big deal,” continued Lewis. “He just thanked me and went on with the day, cool as you please!”

Val raised a quizzical brow at him. “Well, do you think it was a big deal, Robbie?”

Lewis shrugged uncomfortably. “I dunno, I guess I just wished he’d asked, or explained, rather than just taking for granted that I’d do that for him.”

“Well, maybe he’s right, Robbie, maybe it isn’t a big deal,” replied Val thoughtfully. “I mean, if your best mate is hungry and asks you to buy him a sandwich, that’s fine, right?”

Robbie nodded. “I suppose, yeah,” he said.

“Well,” concluded Val. “I guess this isn’t really all that different. You were doing a favour for a friend. Morse obviously trusted you enough to ask you for that favour, even if he did it in his own, well, unique way. But that’s just Morse, isn’t it?”

Lewis let out a small huff of laughter at that. Of course, it would be just like Morse to assume Lewis would feed him. Given how many rounds of beer Lewis ended up buying, he supposed he shouldn’t really even be that surprised.

After a pause, Lewis continued softly. “It makes me a little sad, is all. That he was so hungry that he almost passed out. He was starving himself to avoid the Friendship Centre. It’s sad, is all.”

Val gave him a look full of sympathy, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before resting her head against him. “He strikes me as a very lonely man,” she said softly.

“I’d like to help him, if I could,” whispered Lewis. “I just dunno if he’ll let me.”

“I think he would,” murmured Val. “He let you help him today, didn’t he?”

“You wouldn’t mind, if I, you know—” Lewis broke off, glancing down at his wife. “If I fed him again? If he wants it, of course. You wouldn’t mind, pet?”

Lewis felt Val smile against his shoulder. “You’re a kind man, Robbie. I know it, and Morse knows it, too. You have lots of affection to give. If Morse will accept it, I’d feel better knowing he had it. Everyone deserves affection from their friends.”


	3. Chapter 3

Although Morse never brought up the strange day again (and Lewis never had the nerve to ask him about it), things changed subtly between the two of them. It didn’t happen all at once, mind, more a gradual change that occurred so slowly that Lewis barely noticed it was happening. Morse became slowly more receptive to Lewis’s physical touch, and even went so far as to pat him on the back in a friendly, amicable way at times. Lewis, likewise, began to lose his careful self-restraint around Morse as he realized that Morse didn’t mind Lewis’s affection. In fact, Lewis thought, Morse seemed to rather enjoy it.

And while no words on the subject were ever spoken between them, small changes appeared in their routine together. Small touches, marks of affection, became more commonplace. Lewis’s hand on Morse’s knee as they drove through Oxford in the Jag, on their way to their next investigation. Sitting closer together at lunch in pubs, close enough that their legs could brush under the table. A hand on his guv’s back when Morse slouched over his desk, frowning as he tried to puzzle out the latest clue in a case. Small changes they may seem, but Lewis was deeply pleased by them nonetheless.

Some evenings, even, when the two detectives had retired to Morse’s house for drinks and discussion, Lewis would sit next to the songbird on the old, faded sofa. Morse would lean into Lewis’s shoulder and allow himself to relax his iron grip on his self-control. Lewis would do his best not to stare at the beautiful, unearthly, graceful creature that normally hid inside his boss, simply grateful that Morse trusted him enough to let down his guard.

Spring slowly blossomed into summer, bringing bright sunshine and beautiful flowers overflowing from every window box in Oxford. Lewis and Morse were both happy with their newfound, unspoken arrangement. Even if Lewis still worried about Morse sometimes, he was too nervous to talk to the songbird about his concerns.

That is, until they accidentally spent the night together.

They were working a bear of a case, a double murder with no clear suspects. Both men—and DCI Strange—were afraid that the killer would strike again unless the case was cracked quickly. The week so far had involved long hours, a particularly snarly Morse, and no substantial leads.

Night on the fourth day of the case found the two coppers in Morse’s sitting room, drinks in hand, trying to puzzle through the long list of suspects one more time. Lewis was slumped at one end of the fading sofa, head resting in one hand as he leaned against the sofa’s sagging arm. Morse was leaning against a side table, staring despondently out the gap in the curtains at the darkened garden outside.

“oh, I don’t know, Lewis…”

Lewis glanced up at his superior. Morse looked tired and pale. But even in the dim light of the sitting room, there was an elegance to him. Lewis found his eyes drawn to the strong, graceful lines of Morse’s shoulders as he braced his arms against the table, the sensual stretch of skin that arched along the hollow of his throat and extended down his chest, where the top two undone buttons of his shirt revealed a seductive glimpse of soft, snowy chest hair. Then Morse looked up at Lewis, blinked, and suddenly he was just Morse again, a dishevelled, tired man who looked like he could use a good kip.

_His self-control is remarkable_ reflected Lewis. _Songbirds are made to look attractive at all times, and yet he manages to hide his nature from almost everyone._

“Sorry, Lewis,” said Morse ruefully. “I’m tired, I forgot myself for a moment.”

“Oh, that’s alright, sir,” Lewis said cheerfully. “You know it doesn’t bother me.” Morse cast him a grateful glance, then resumed his pensive frown at the floor. Supernaturally attractive or not, Morse still looked tired. As far as Lewis could figure, it had been days since he’d had anything to eat, or a good sleep.

“There has to be something we’re missing, Lewis!” Morse burst out after a moment. “It just doesn’t make _sense_ otherwise!”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, sir,” Lewis reassured. Then, struck by a sudden impulse, he patted the seat of Morse’s sofa next to him. “Why don’t you come sit down here, sir, and we can have a think about it together?”

Morse glanced up at Lewis, barely concealed desire and relief evident in his face. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

Lewis smiled and held out his arm invitingly. “Of course not, sir.”

Gratefully, Morse crossed the room to the sofa and sat down, settling back against Lewis’s chest with a deep sigh that was half a groan. Morse’s eyes drifted closed as Lewis tightened his arm around his guv’s shoulders. Lewis felt a sudden surge of affection for the man, and couldn’t help smiling as he watched some of the tension and exhaustion drain from Morse’s face. Morse, evidently picking up on Lewis’s emotions, cracked his eyes open to glare at his sergeant. “What are you smirking at, Lewis?” he asked. But there was no real rancour in his voice, nor anger in his glare. It was merely a nod to form.

Lewis quickly turned his head to gaze out of the window in order to hide his broadening grin. “Nothing, sir,” he said, suppressing a chuckle. Then, changing the subject to the case, added “You know, I reckon we should go talk to Alicia Smetley again.”

Morse allowed his eyes to close again as his head fell back to rest against Lewis’s shoulder. “Why’s that, Lewis?”

“Well, it just seems fishy, doesn’t it? I mean, she’d stand to benefit most from her husband’s death. And you said she wasn’t really grieving for him, didn’t you?”

Morse nodded thoughtfully against Lewis’s shoulder. “Go on,” he prompted

Lewis continued to expound on his theory of how Alicia Smetley could have murdered her husband. “What I don’t understand though is how she could’ve had time to dump the body and then get back to pick up her son. What do you think?”

Morse, however, did not respond.

“Sir?” Lewis inquired, glancing down at his chief.

Morse was fast asleep, head tucked against Lewis’s chest. Lewis could feel his soft, warm breaths against his shirt. Unguarded and asleep, Morse looked as warm and inviting as a fire on a cold winter’s night. His colour was returning as he drank in the affection that Lewis provided, giving his skin an almost luminous quality. The frown lines that often overtook his face when awake had faded, leaving him looking younger and happier than Lewis normally saw him. He appeared wonderfully soft and graceful, and, even though he was growing used to Morse’s attractive pull, Lewis had to fight the urge to press his lips to the silky silver hair resting against his chest. Morse reminded Lewis of a cat napping in the sun, completely content and relaxed and yet somehow still elegant, even in sleep. Lewis smiled fondly down at the songbird. It filled his heart that Morse trusted him enough to fall asleep, trusted him enough to accept his affection. Lewis leaned back against the sofa, careful not to disturb his chief as he did. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander over the case. It wouldn’t hurt to let Morse sleep for just a little while.

* * *

Morse awoke slowly. At first, he was conscious of nothing but warmth and contentment. He hadn’t felt this fulfilled for a long time. Then he became aware that he was curled against a warm, strong chest, being lulled by someone’s steady heartbeat. _Thursday_ thought Morse, smiling to himself. He must’ve fallen asleep with Thursday on the sofa again. Without opening his eyes he stretched, pressing himself more firmly against the warm chest behind him and breathing in deeply to catch the comforting scent of pipe tobacco and aftershave that Thursday always gave off.

Instead, he smelled something entirely different. Clean cotton, shampoo, and a personal scent drastically different than Thursday’s, one that reminded Morse of cedarwood and petrichor—the clean smell that follows the first rain of spring. _Lewis._

Morse’s eyes flew open. He was in his own sitting room, with daylight filtering in through the curtained windows. He was curled with his feet up on the sofa, securely tucked against Lewis’s side, with the latter’s arm draped gently across his torso. Carefully turning his head without disturbing Lewis, Morse observed the younger man. Lewis was sprawled ungracefully over the far end of the sofa, head tilted back against the cushions at an angle that made Morse wince for the stiff neck he was sure his sergeant would wake with. Lewis’s mouth was half open as he snored gently.

They’d fallen asleep. They’d spent the night together. Morse exhaled forcefully and slowly raised a hand to scrub at his face. His thoughts were a muddled mess. A sense of guilt for keeping Lewis all night and a fear of Lewis’s reaction upon waking battled with his deep sense of contentment at being well-rested and well-fed. And, he couldn’t deny, there was a small part of him that was giddy as a teenager at the thought that he’d gotten to sleep the night through with someone who cared for him, after so many years alone. Finally, his sense of duty roused him fully. It was morning, and they had a murderer to catch.

Morse spent several minutes carefully composing his mind, ensuring that his self-control was strong as a vice before he determined to rouse his partner. Morse sat up slowly, Lewis’s arm sliding off of him as he did so.

“Lewis?” inquired Morse softly.

No response.

Morse cleared his throat and tried again, a little louder this time. “Ah, Lewis?”

Lewis continued to snore softly.

Morse sighed, then gently shook his sergeant’s shoulder. “Lewis, it’s time to wake up.”

Lewis started, blinking blearily up at the ceiling. One hand—as Morse has predicted—went instantly to his neck as he groaned and raised his head. “Wha time s’it, sir?” Lewis mumbled groggily, still massaging his neck. “I musta dozed off…” Looking around, Lewis took in the patches of daylight visible across the floor, then the clock on the mantle that showed the time to be 8:40 AM. Eyes widening, he glanced at Morse, a hint of alarm evident in his face.

“That,” remarked Morse tartly, “is obvious.”

“Oh.” Lewis sat forward, rubbing both hands over his face in an attempt to wipe his grogginess away. Then he returned to rubbing ineffectually at his stiff neck.

“You should call your wife, Lewis,” said Morse, watching his sergeant closely. “She’ll be worried about you.”

Lewis glanced over at him, and Morse briefly allowed his anxiety and worry over the situation to show on his face. Lewis, he knew, would understand. Lewis could always understand what Morse could not verbalize.

Lewis looked confused for a second, and then clarity flashed across his face. He gave a tired smile. “Nah,” he replied, now turning his head from side to side in an attempt to loosen his neck. “Val’s used to me staying out all night on cases, she won’t be too worried.” He looked at Morse steadily. “It’s fine,” he repeated firmly, answering both the spoken and unspoken questions.

Morse offered Lewis a brief grateful smile, then stood. “I can fix your neck, if you hold still.”

“Oh, that’s alright, sir, s’not so bad,” demurred Lewis, trying and failing to hide a wince as he turned his head to follow Morse’s movement across the room.

Morse rolled his eyes. “Really, Lewis,” he chided, striding around the sofa so he stood behind his seated sergeant. “You’re no use watching my back if you can’t even turn your own head!” Morse dug the tips of his fingers into the tense knot in the side of Lewis’s neck and began gently massaging, coaxing the tight muscle fibres to unwind under his touch. Lewis hissed lightly through his teeth, a sound that was half pain and half relief.

“So, are we going to see Mrs. Smetley again today?” asked Lewis.

“I think we’d better,” returned Morse, still working at his sergeant’s neck. “What I remember of your theory from last night seemed promising.”

Lewis grinned happily at the compliment. “Maybe we could get her to confess to Mr. Larant’s murder, as well.”

“A man can dream, Lewis,” said Morse, releasing Lewis’s neck as he felt the last of the knot dissolve under his fingertips.

Lewis turned his head experimentally from side to side. “That’s much better, thank you sir!” he said, standing up from the sofa and crossing the room to the phone. “I think I will give Val a quick ring, hang on.”

Morse watched, slightly apprehensive, as Lewis picked up the phone and dialled his home number. He very much hoped that Valerie Lewis would not be angry with her husband, or angry with Morse for taking up so much of her husband’s time. Being able to touch Lewis, and be touched by him, on his own terms felt like such a luxury to Morse. A luxury he had not been able to enjoy before Thursday and Win had taken him in, and had not been able to enjoy much since Thursday’s passing. Before emancipation, he had been perhaps the only songbird that had the luxury of that choice. For most—for him as well, while he was with his first keeper, Guy—there was no choice in whether or not one was touched. Songbirds could not decide how to act, what to do, and what degree of closeness to allow others. They were expected to obey—their keeper above all, but even most strangers as well. Songbirds were always to conform to expectations. Always polite, always perfect, always ready to please.

After emancipation, Morse took great pleasure in being able to make his own choices in behaviour. He enjoyed being as acerbic and snarly as he desired, an indulgence he’d never been allowed before. Even if his attitude tended to drive away most people who may be friends with him, he thought that a fair price to pay for being his own person and being able to speak his mind.

Although he would have a hard time admitting it to his sergeant, Morse was incredibly grateful to Lewis. Lewis’s brief, friendly touches these past months had kept Morse better satisfied than he could remember being in years of visiting the Friendship Centre every few days. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be able to feed from someone who genuinely cared about him, and knew him deeply.

Lewis’s voice cut through Morse’s thoughts. “Hi, pet! No, don’t worry, I’m fine.” There was a pause as Lewis listened to the other end of the line. Morse felt a guilty twist in his stomach as he considered how worried Valerie Lewis must have been. All because he was being selfish with Lewis’s time.

“Yeah, late night, so…. Yeah, I just kipped on the sofa over here, hope you don’t mind… Thanks, love, you’re the best. …Right, yeah…. Love you, too. Alright, see you this evening.” Lewis hung up the phone and turned back to Morse. “Mind if I go freshen up, sir?” he asked.

Morse nodded, still feeling the guilt squirming in his stomach. “Upstairs, first door on the left,” he said, gesturing Lewis to the toilet.

“Right, thanks,” Lewis said brightly, turning to leave the sitting room. Lewis was halfway to the stairs when Morse called after him, unable to stand the guilt anymore.

“Lewis?”

Lewis reappeared in the sitting room door a moment later, looking surprised. “Sir?” he asked.

“You’re quite sure, Lewis, that—with your wife—” Morse struggled to find the right words. Lewis’s brow was creasing in confusion. “With my wife, what?” he asked.

“She’s not upset that you spent the night here?” Morse asked desperately.

Lewis still looked puzzled. “No, why should she be? She’d rather I kip over here than drive home if I’m really that exhausted when it’s late.”

“And… you’re not upset that you spent the night here?” Morse tried not to let his anxiety over the question show in his voice but knew he had failed.

“No, of course I’m not!” Lewis exclaimed, expression shifting from confusion to concerned compassion in an instant.

Morse looked down, unable to meet Lewis’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be taking up so much of your time, Lewis,” Morse said softly. “I shouldn’t be keeping you away from your family.”

“It’s alright sir, really,” Lewis sounded a little lost now. Morse didn’t respond. He heard footsteps as Lewis crossed the room. He saw Lewis’s feet stop close to his, then felt the younger man’s hand on his shoulder. Morse forced himself to look up into Lewis’s kind, earnest face. “I promise, sir, it’s fine. I don’t mind, and neither does Val. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

Feeling rather overwhelmed, Morse nodded. Lewis’s eyes softened as the concern in his face was replaced by affection. He gave Morse’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then released him. “I’ll just be a mo, sir,” he said, turning and resuming his course for the stairs. A moment later, Morse heard the sound of running water coming from the upstairs bathroom. With a sigh, Morse followed Lewis up the stairs. He supposed he should probably tidy up for the day, as well.

After a quick change of clothes for Morse and a quick bite of toast for Lewis, the two men were seated in the jag and on the road to Alicia Smetley’s residence. Lewis fiddled with the cassette player as Morse drove, turning up the volume on one of Morse’s favourite serenades. “What’s this, then?” he asked as the lovely, poignant notes of violin filled the jag, backed by softly swelling strings.

Morse cast Lewis an exasperated look. “Really, Lewis, don’t you know _anything_ about Mozart?” he demanded. “This is _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_!”

Lewis merely looked his confusion.

Morse gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, start it over again, Lewis! If this is your first time hearing _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_ , you must listen to it properly!”

Lewis grinned in amusement as he rewound the tape to the beginning and pressed play. “Of course, sir,” he intoned dutifully.

As the first powerful notes filled the car, Morse gave a deep sigh of contentment. It was a beautiful summer day, with Mozart playing and Lewis at his side. The leaves of the trees outside the jag stirred gently in a soft breeze, glinting like chips of emerald in the bright sun. He was well fed, and Lewis had said he didn’t mind spending the night. _Really_ , thought Morse, reaching over to turn up the volume on the cassette a bit, _I should let Lewis spend the night more often, especially if it leads to lovely days like this._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angsty feels and a good deal of fluff--I hope you enjoy!  
> Also, this chapter references several parts of athena_crikey's work Birdsong as canon. I would highly recommend giving it a read.

Morse was feeling less pleased, however, after an unproductive and frustrating interview with Mrs. Alicia Smetley. The clever woman managed to dodge all his pointed questions with the skill of a gymnast. After over half an hour of verbal tango, Morse was forced to resign himself to the fact that he would need more concrete evidence before he could force a confession from her. If she’d even committed the crime.

“Well, Lewis, do you still think she’s our killer?” asked Morse sceptically as the sped back towards the nick in the jag, Mozart temporarily turned down in order to better facilitate discussion.

“Dunno, sir,” sighed Lewis, leaning his head back on the seat and scrubbing at his face. “I just don’t know who else could’ve done it, is the problem.”

“We haven’t confirmed Mr. Johnston’s alibi yet, Lewis. Perhaps a little more digging on his movements on the night of the murder will turn up something?” suggested Morse half-heartedly.

“Do you really think there’s something going on, then? Between Mrs. Smetley and Mr. Johnston?” asked Lewis, glancing over at his superior. “I mean, isn’t the mother having an affair with the chemistry teacher a little cliché?”

“Unhappily married women rarely care about whether something is cliché or not, Lewis,” replied Morse.

The two coppers stopped for lunch at a pub by the river, Lewis eating his sandwich and Morse drinking his pint at a sunny outdoor table facing the glittering water. Still full and satisfied from the night before, Morse did not sit next to Lewis and lean against his sergeant’s shoulder as was often his wont when hungry. Instead he sat across from Lewis, allowing the latter some elbow room. Warm and content in the sunshine, Morse gazed out at the water and allowed his mind to wander. He found his thoughts drifting back to occasional lunches shared at similar pubs more than twenty years ago, before emancipation. He remembered Inspector Thursday buying him his first pint when he was shell-shocked from the death of his first keeper, and discovering that he liked the taste of ale. He remembered sitting together with Thursday in bright summer sunlight throughout the years, sometimes with Strange or Jakes, sometimes just the two of them. They’d sit together and talk about cases, or sometimes the others would talk and Morse would listen contentedly to their chatter, allowing the comfortable companionship to warm his insides. But now, Strange was his boss. Jakes was long gone to America, and Thursday was gone too, but gone somewhere that Morse could never go to see him.

After lunch, Morse settled at his desk with a groan. He tried to reflect on the case, but found his thoughts returning again and again to the past night—the night he had spent with Lewis. How many years had it been since someone had stayed with him through the night? The only person he’d trusted enough to watch him sleep was Thursday, and Thursday had been gone for nearly five years now. Struck anew by the tender pain of memory, Morse opened the top drawer of his desk, brushing aside pens and scraps of paper until he found what he was looking for: a rectangular beaten metal tag of ownership on a fine silver chain, worn and scratched from almost a decade of constant wear. Morse pulled the tag gently from the drawer, holding it softly in his palm as he brushed the tips of his fingers across the engraving.

_++ Noli me tangere ++  
Frederick Albert Thursday_

The sadness and sorrow of loss welled in his chest, as well as the tenderness of remembered affection, a searing, painful mixture. Upon emancipation, many songbirds threw their ownership tags away in triumph, exultant to be free of their keepers. Some songbirds, however, including Morse, had kept theirs—a token of the love and protection they were once guaranteed. Even though Thursday had been Morse’s keeper in name only, Morse had still been required to wear an ownership tag. Thursday had chosen the inscription—“do not touch me”—as a gesture to assure Morse he was no kept thing in his superior’s eyes. Morse bit his lip, trying to force back the painful aching in his throat.

DI Thursday had not only given Morse affection and a home—he had given him a chance to live his own life, perhaps just as precious to Morse as the feeling of belonging. Thursday had offered him a way out of his virtual slavery more than a decade before emancipation freed all songbirds. If it hadn’t been for Thursday’s kindness, initiative, and quick thinking, Morse would have died young, alone and touch-starved, the property of the crown until a new keeper could have been found for him.

In almost every way, post-emancipation life was infinitely superior for songbirds to what they had known before. They were now free to choose their own profession, friends, and lovers. _But yet_ , reflected Morse, gazing sadly at the tag, _but yet, he missed the comfort of knowing someone was there to care for him._

* * *

Lewis was just returning to the office with arms full of papers. “Sir,” he called as he shoved open the door with his hip, “I have the toxicology report on Albert Smetley for you!”

Morse looked up at Lewis from where he was sitting hunched over his desk, examining something small and metal in his palm. His eyes were over bright, and his expression was brittle, sad and far away.

“Sir?” asked Lewis, uncertain.

Morse took a deep breath and hastily stowed whatever he had been examining in the top drawer of his desk. Lewis could almost see his mental shields going up as he forced his expression back to neutrality. “Well? Anything I should know?”

Lewis simply stared at Morse for a second before remembering the matter at hand. “Right, yes sir. Max says Albert Smetley was definitely poisoned.”

Morse arched an eyebrow. “Poisoned?”

“Yes, with arsenic. The same arsenic compound used to kill Larant, as a matter of fact.”

Morse ran a distracted hand through his hair as he considered this new information. “Johnston could have gotten arsenic. He’s a chemistry teacher, after all.”

“Is arsenic something normally stocked in chemistry labs?” asked Lewis, surprised.

“It can be, Lewis,” replied Morse, his eyes starting to sparkle with excitement. “Call the school, see who supplies their chemicals for lab, who’s in charge of ordering supplies, and whether or not Johnston has recently put in any odd requests or orders.”

Just then there was a knock on the open office door, and a young, nervous PC poked his head into the office. “Inspector? The chief super would like to see you in his office.”

Morse raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Oh, really. Did he mention what for?”

“Er, no sir, he didn’t.”

Morse rose from his seat with a groan, casting Lewis a look of exasperation as he strode towards the door. “Keep after Mr. Johnston, Lewis. I’ll be back soon, I hope.”

“Right, sir,” Lewis returned. “Good luck with the chief super.” Morse turned briefly to pull a face at Lewis before following the PC down the hall.

Lewis sat at his desk for long moments after Morse’s footsteps had faded to silence. He knew he should keep investigating Mr. Johnston, but…

Unable to resist the burning curiosity, Lewis rose and crossed to Morse’s desk. With a quick glance to the door to ensure Morse was not returning, he opened the top drawer of Morse’s desk. Pens, office supplies, and, there—a tarnished, scratched metal tag on a fine chain. Carefully, Lewis picked it up, flipping it over to read the inscription.

_++ Noli me tangere ++  
Frederick Albert Thursday_

Realization struck Lewis as he read the name “Thursday”. He’d occasionally heard Morse mention a DI Thursday, his governor before McNutt, and apparently his keeper before songbird emancipation. This was the ownership tag that Morse would’ve been forced to wear, back before songbirds were considered legal persons. An odd sensation twisted in Lewis’s gut, half nauseated disgust at the thought of his governor as a kept thing, half painful sympathy for the nostalgia this memory of Thursday obviously held for Morse. Lewis could not help wondering why Morse had kept his tag. His general understanding was that most songbirds looked to the past with disgust, not wistfulness. But then, he wondered, how long had it been since Morse had been looked after? Or had someone to look after him, someone he trusted? Lewis knew he trusted Morse, as his superior officer and as his friend, to always have his back, to always look out for him. At this moment, Lewis sincerely hoped that Morse felt the same way about him. It seemed like it would be a very lonely life without someone to trust.

The following Friday morning finally brought the conclusion they were hoping for. Mrs. Smetley’s paramour, Mr. Johnston, confronted with the incontrovertible evidence that Mr. Smetley had not died of natural causes, broke down and betrayed his role in the two deaths.

“Fancy a pint this evening?” asked Morse. The two coppers were nominally sorting the Smetley papers into boxes for filing. In reality, Lewis was sorting the papers while Morse reclined in his chair with his feet propped on his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up and gazing dreamily at the ceiling as a Bach concerto swelled from the wireless on the shelf.

Lewis pulled a face. “Ah, I can’t, sir.”

“Don’t tell me, you’re babysitting.”

“No, sir, it’s me birthday party tonight!”

Morse frowned crossly at Lewis, leaning forward and removing his feet from the desk. “But your birthday isn’t until next week!”

Lewis felt a small flush of pleasure at the fact that Morse remembered his birthday.

“Yeah, but Val figured it’s better to have friends over on a Friday, you know?”

Morse reclined again, arching his eyebrows. “No, I don’t know, Lewis,” he replied sardonically. “Songbirds don’t generally host birthday parties with their friends.”

“Oh,” said Lewis, turning faintly pink. That seemed very sad to him. Had Morse ever celebrated a birthday? Or gone to a birthday party, for that matter? Lewis felt a swell of sympathy for his boss, and was struck by a sudden impulse of friendship.

“You could come, if you like, sir,” Lewis said all in a rush, before he could lose his nerve. “There will be drinks, and food, and—oh, right,” Lewis broke off, embarrassed, upon remembering that food and drinks would not appeal to songbirds, since they needed neither for survival.

Morse regarded Lewis with his dazzling blue eyes, choosing to ignore Lewis putting his foot in his mouth. Lewis thought he could see conflicting emotions warring behind Morse’s calm expression. Then, finally, the conflict in his eyes turned to resolution. “Alright, Lewis.”

Lewis felt a surprised smile spread across his face, his heart lifting inexplicably in excitement. “You’ll come then, sir?”

“I’d be happy to come to your birthday party, Lewis,” affirmed Morse, smiling softly in return.

“Right then, great! Come round to my place, say seven thirty?” suggested Lewis

Morse nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Cheers,” said Lewis, picking up the full box of papers and heading toward the office door.

“Lewis?”

Lewis turned, halfway through the doorway, to look back at Morse.

“Thank you,” the songbird said simply.

* * *

As he parked the jag at the end of Lewis’s street and turned off the engine, Morse felt his misgivings rising. The invitation that had seemed perfectly reasonable to accept that afternoon suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. Songbirds didn’t belong at normal people’s birthday parties. He was sure to be stared at, whispered about behind his back. He recalled with displeasure the handful of birthday parties Win Thursday had talked him into attending at the Thursday household. All had ended with him hiding upstairs until the party was over or slipping out early, sick of constantly feeling the guests’ eyes fixed upon him with curiosity or lust.

But, it was Lewis who had asked him to this party. Lewis, who had looked so hopeful when he said “you could come, if you like, sir,” and who had smiled so endearingly when Morse had accepted. Lewis, who never let Morse’s nature get in the way of their interactions, who always treated him just like any other friend—just like any other human. Surely, Lewis would make sure he was welcome here.

With a deep sigh, Morse stepped out of the jag, locked it, and pocketed his keys.

The street was crowded with parked vehicles around Lewis’s house, a testimony to the number of people evidently in attendance. Lewis had many friends. Morse mounted the front steps and rang the bell. There was a pause of almost a minute, during which Morse considered turning around and fleeing into the night. But then the door was opened, and there was Lewis, smiling happily. “Sir!” he exclaimed, stepping back to allow Morse to pass through the door. “I’m glad you came!”

Morse nodded stiffly. Lewis, perhaps sensing Morse’s unease, placed a hand briefly on Morse’s elbow. Even the slight touch was enough to allow Morse to read some of the pleasure and gratitude that Lewis was feeling.

Just then Morse heard the pounding of running feet and Lewis’s daughter appeared in the doorway, long dark hair falling in a tangle down her back. Her eyes, as wide and blue as Lewis’s own, were gazing at Morse with fascination and excitement. A moment later her younger brother appeared behind her, slightly out of breath from chasing her through the house.

“Oh, right,” Lewis said, turning to his children and drawing them forward. “Sir, this is Lyn, and this is Patrick. Kids, this is my boss, Inspector Morse.” Patrick waved bashfully at Morse before hiding behind his father’s legs. Lyn, on the other hand, approached Morse and held out her small hand solemnly for him to shake. Morse, amused in spite of himself, returned the handshake with equal solemnity. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lyn,” he said, allowing a small smile to cross his face.

Gravity did not suit Lyn, however, and upon releasing his hand she bounced up and down in excitement. “Would you like to hear my piano recital piece?” she asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

Morse cast a quizzical look towards Lewis, who was barely concealing an amused smirk. “Her recital’s next week,” he explained to Morse. “She’s been dying to play for someone besides Val an’ me.”

Morse looked back down at the eager, pleading face before him, and couldn’t help smiling himself. “I would love to hear your recital piece,” he told her kindly. The next thing Morse knew a small, warm hand had captured his own and was tugging him determinedly through the house, leaving a chortling Lewis behind them in the entryway. With most of his previous foreboding replaced with amusement, Morse followed Lyn deeper into the house.

* * *

All in all, Lewis was quite enjoying his birthday party. A good mix of friends from the station and his and Val’s acquaintance had turned out, everyone milling around the living room with beers in hand, chatting pleasantly.

During a lull in the general proceedings, Lewis found himself standing next to Val in the kitchen. She smiled up at him, and he bent down to kiss her softly on the lips.  
“Enjoying yourself, love?” she asked, wrapping a fond arm around his waist.

“Yeah, this great,” replied Lewis.

“Would you like me to serve the cake soon?” asked Val.

“Yeah, probably about that time,” he agreed.

“Would you go fetch Lyn?” she asked, giving him a little shove to propel him away from her and out of the kitchen. “She said she wanted to help light the candles.”

Smiling to himself, Lewis set out in search of his daughter.

The sound of piano music and Morse’s laughter drew Lewis to the den. When he reached the door he stopped, arrested by the sight that met his eyes. Morse had joined his daughter on the piano bench. He was smiling down at her in fond amusement as she frowned furiously at the keys, attempting to pick out the first bars of Für Elise under his tutelage.

“It’s hard!” complained Lyn plaintively as her fingers slipped again, drawing a sour plunk from the old piano.

“No, no, that was quite good!” encouraged Morse, moving to place his own hands on the keys. Lyn instantly made way for him and watched in admiration as his graceful fingers began to slowly glide across the keys. “You just need to practice each hand separately, then it will be easier to play them together. See, your right hand is fine, but your left hand needs to move here…” he demonstrated, then motioned for her to try again. Lyn began tentatively with her left hand. “Good, good…” encouraged Morse, watching keenly. “No, cross your third finger over your thumb there, then you can reach—exactly.”

Lewis must have made a soft noise, because Morse glanced up and caught sight of him standing in the doorway. His eyes were sparkling like a clear mountain stream, his face overspread with a gentle yet wistful smile as he instructed Lewis’s daughter at the instrument. In that moment, with his self-control partially relaxed, Morse seemed as warm and bright as late afternoon sunlight on a field of flowers. Lewis felt an odd, tight feeling rising in his chest, half tenderness and half longing for something he could not quite identify.

Lyn finished the passage, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “I still think it’s hard!” she declared.

Morse looked back to Lyn, smiling indulgently. “It will be easier once you have the sheet music,” he assured her. “I’ll find my copy as soon as I can, and have your father bring it to you.”

“Yay!” Lyn clapped her hands together in excitement, then followed Morse’s gaze to the doorway of the den. “Daddy!” she cried “Did you hear the new song that Inspector Morse taught me?”

“I did,” smiled Lewis. “It sounded lovely.”

“No, it didn’t,” corrected Lyn with all the brutal honesty of eleven-year-olds. “It sounds much better when Inspector Morse plays it.”

Morse suppressed an amused smirk at this remark, glancing to Lewis again briefly.

“But Inspector Morse says he’ll get me the sheet music! Then I can learn it properly!” Lyn announced excitedly.

“That’s very kind of him,” said Lewis. “Now, Lyn, your mother would like your help in the kitchen.”

“Alright, Daddy.” Lyn sprung up from the piano bench, then turned again to hold her hand out solemnly to Morse. “Thank you, Inspector Morse!” she said, shaking his hand. Then she darted off to the kitchen, already calling out to Val. “Mummy, I learned a new song!”

Lewis smiled fondly after her. He then returned his gaze to Morse, who was gently closing the lid of the piano with a loving touch. “I didn’t know you played, sir,” said Lewis tentatively.

Morse glanced up at Lewis with a brittle expression, the same one he often wore when thinking about his past life. “I don’t really play anymore, Lewis,” he said softly. “Guy—one of my keepers—thought it was a skill a songbird should have, so I learned. I haven’t practiced seriously in over twenty years, though.”

“Oh,” Lewis said, unsure how to respond to this surprising allusion to Morse’s pre-emancipation past.

Morse rose from the piano bench with a slight groan. “Your daughter shows promise as a pianist, Lewis,” he said, crossing to the door. “Make sure you remind her to practice, especially each hand alone.” With that, Morse slipped past Lewis and vanished back into the main party, his self-control over his allure firmly back in place. Lewis was left staring after him wonderingly, his chest still aching with that strange feeling of affection and longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update--adulting got in the way.  
> Additionally, I am in the market for a beta reader for this and/or other Morseverse stories I have in the works. If anyone is interested, please message me on here or on tumblr (dancelikeanarchitect).  
> I hope you're enjoying the story so far! Next update should come faster than this one!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @Figure_of_Dismay for jumping in to beta halfway through this story!! Your feedback has been invaluable as the boys embark on their newest mysterious investigation!
> 
> Content warning for this chapter: mention of physical domestic abuse. Proceed accordingly.

With a string of suspicious deaths to keep him busy in the days after the party, Lewis completely forgot about Inspector Morse’s promise to give his daughter sheet music. Therefore, Lewis was thoroughly baffled when he entered his office one Thursday morning a couple weeks after his birthday to find a neat stack of piano music on his desk, covering his notes and bits of evidence from their most recent case, and no Morse in sight. Wondering what on earth Beethoven had to do with the death of a lorry driver, Lewis was paging through the music in perplexity when Morse swept back into the office.

“What’s all this, then, sir?” Lewis asked, waving the sheet music vaguely at Morse as the songbird settled at his desk.

“That’s the sheet music I promised your daughter, Lewis,” replied Morse, raising his eyebrows as though that fact should be obvious.

“What? Oh, right!” Lewis paused, unsure if he should say anything else, but Morse was already absorbed in the paperwork on his own desk.

Lewis could not help reflecting gratefully on Morse’s kindness to his daughter throughout the day, whenever he saw the little pile of music on the corner of his desk. He thought of it again when he brought home the music that night as he watched Lyn’s face light up with joy as she eagerly skimmed the top page of music before darting off to the piano to start practicing.

Lewis smiled fondly after her. Val approached then, wrapping her arms around his waist and planting a kiss on his cheek as the faltering notes of Für Elise began to filter from the den.

“She’ll be inseparable from that piano for a week,” Lewis guessed.

Val chuckled in acknowledgement. “That was very kind of Inspector Morse to remember to do that for her,” she said softly, leaning her head against Lewis’s shoulder affectionately.

“Aye, it was,” replied Lewis, feeling a faint stirring of the same tender longing he’d noticed at his birthday party.

“You should invite him to dinner tomorrow,” said Val, still looking after Lyn towards the den.

Lewis glanced down at her, frowning slightly. “But… he doesn’t eat dinner, pet?” he said, rather confused.

“I know that,” replied Val, tugging Lewis’s coat off his shoulders and shooing him towards the kitchen to wash up, “But that doesn’t mean he won’t appreciate the company.”

All the next day, Lewis pondered how to ask Morse to dinner, but never quite plucked up the courage or found the right moment. And then, before he knew it, it was the end of the day, and Morse was pulling on his suit jacket as he prepared to leave.

“Fancy a pint this evening, Lewis?” he asked, picking up his car keys with a faint jingle of metal.

“Actually, sir, I was wondering if, well, if—” Lewis broke off, stumbling over his words. How would the prickly songbird react to being asked to dinner? A meal he didn’t even eat. Would he scoff? Would he think Lewis was only asking out of pity and take offence?

Morse arched an eyebrow. “’If’ _what_ , Lewis?” he asked, a slight bite of impatience evident in his tone.

Gathering all his courage, Lewis found his voice. “Val and I were wondering if you’d like to come for dinner tonight, sir.”

Morse blinked, looking taken aback and slightly mollified. “You know I don’t eat, Lewis,” he said questioningly.

“I know,” said Lewis, “but Val and I would still appreciate your company. And Lyn’s been dying to show you her progress on the new song you gave her.”

Morse regarded Lewis steadily with his glacial blue eyes for a moment before nodding his assent. “Alright, Lewis,” he said, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’d be happy to come to dinner.”

The two coppers arrived at the Lewises’ house as the summer sun was beginning to drift towards the treetops, painting the swing set and the greenhouse in the garden with soft, buttery golden light.

“Hi, pet, we’re here!” called Lewis from the entry. Almost instantly, Lyn appeared beside them, her blue eyes wide with excitement. “Inspector Morse!” she cried, “do you want to hear the song you gave me? It sounds much better now that I’ve been practicing!” 

Morse gave a surprised smile, but then assented. Lyn, happy to have an audience, seized Morse’s hand and dragged him off to the den. Lewis, smiling, continued deeper into the house.

He found both Val and Patrick in the kitchen, Val stirring a pan of sautéing vegetables while Patrick solemnly handed her pepper slices to add. Lewis kissed his wife and ruffled his son’s hair.

“Mr. Morse is here for dinner tonight?” asked Patrick, glancing towards the den where his sister had installed the songbird next to her on the piano bench. “Do you think he’ll like the peppers, Dad?”

“Actually, pet, I wanted to talk to you about that,” said Lewis, crouching slightly so his eyes were on a level with his son’s. “Inspector Morse is a songbird, see? And songbirds don’t need food and drink like you and I do. They need affection, like hugs and cuddles, not veggies and bread. So Inspector Morse won’t be eating any of the peppers, alright?”

Patrick nodded seriously, eyes wide and earnest. “Will he need hugs and cuddles then, Dad?”

Lewis smiled. “I imagine he’ll ask for some if he does need them, but you shouldn’t give him any if he doesn’t ask, alright?”

Patrick nodded again. “Alright, Dad! Mum, can I go finish my drawing? I was drawing a dinosaur!”

“Yes, you may,” replied Val, planting a kiss on Patrick’s head before he handed her the last of the peppers and skipped out of the room.

“Why don’t you go rescue your poor boss from the piano recital?” smiled Val as the sound of disjointed music continued from the den.

Dinner was surprisingly not as awkward as Lewis had been fearing. Morse perched slightly hesitantly at the far end of the table, sipping politely at the cup of tea Val had insisted on providing him. Morse mostly listened to the family’s chatter, occasionally joining in when one of the adults addressed him directly. Patrick was shy and quiet, but Lyn was in her usual form, chattering away cheerily about school, her friends, and—of course—her music. Eventually Morse got drawn into a long discussion on Beethoven with the spirited eleven-year-old. Lewis and Val exchanged amused looks as Morse tried convincing a sceptical Lyn that opera was far superior to simple piano concertos, without much success. 

After dinner, Lyn insisted on a game of scrabble before bed. Patrick looked nervous about this. “You can be on my team, Patrick,” assured Morse, smiling his twinkling smile down and Lewis’s son. Lewis was amazed. He’d never realized that his boss was so good with kids. Morse generally avoided interacting with children on their cases together, leaving this dubious honour to his sergeant, nominally because he had a family of his own. But now Lewis realized that Morse’s hesitancy to interact with children may have less to do with an unwillingness than a natural shyness, or the prejudices of many parents against songbirds.

Morse, it transpired, was unbeatable at Scrabble. He and Patrick handily won by over fifty points, and all the while Morse let Patrick feel like he was the one coming up with the clever words. Lewis, Val, and Lyn never stood a chance. After the game, Patrick was practically drooping with tiredness, and even energetic Lyn was having trouble concealing her yawns, Val half carried Patrick up to bed while Lyn helped Morse and Lewis clear away the scrabble board. Before going upstairs herself, Lyn threw her arms briefly around the songbird’s waist in an affectionate hug. 

“Thank you for the music, Inspector Morse!” she bubbled. Then, smiling broadly, she released the bemused but gratified songbird and scampered upstairs to bed. 

Chuckling, Lewis stood to see his boss to the door. As Morse opened the door Lewis paused him.

“Sir,” he started, and Morse turned to look at him with those startlingly blue eyes. Lewis was momentarily dumbstruck by the warmth and kindness he saw in those eyes, but then pulled himself together. “Thank you for coming tonight,” he said simply

Morse smiled warmly, his glittering eyes reminding Lewis of a twinkling string of Christmas lights. “Thank you, Lewis. I greatly enjoyed dinner tonight.”

Lewis couldn’t help smiling in return as he showed his guv to the door. “You’re always welcome here for dinner, sir.”

* * *

Again, things both changed and didn’t. As summer passed slowly into fall, Morse found himself coming to rather enjoy family dinners at the Lewis household. Val and the children seemed just as accepting of his nature as Lewis himself, and Morse was glad to help Lyn with her piano or Patrick with his reading in exchange for the favour of company and affection from the Lewises.

It took Morse more time to get comfortable with Val than it did with the kids. Young children, especially those who had not reached puberty, were immune to a songbird’s seductive pull. This trait had always endeared children to Morse, even though he was generally not considered “good company” for youngsters.

Val, though, unlike her children, had to learn to fight the natural attraction of a songbird before she became completely comfortable around him. Luckily, Morse was extremely skilled at controlling his allure after so many years of necessary practice. He was able to slowly relax his guard around her, ease her into the experience. Even so, the leaves were turning on the trees before he could fully relax his guard around the whole family.

It was a wet fall morning, with a chilly breeze threatening to tug down the brittle yellow, orange, and brown leaves still clinging to their branches. The stormy weather had put Morse in even more of a Wagnerian mood than usual, and he was enjoying one of his favourite recordings of _Twilight of the Gods_ while completing the daily crossword. Much to his annoyance, however, he was interrupted by the shrill ring of the bell, a sure sign that someone was at the door. He got to his feet with a groan, one hand going to his bad hip as he started for the door. The old gunshot wound from the Coke-Norris case always seemed to pain him more when the weather was damp.

Morse opened the door to find the familiar figure of Lewis, swathed in a black rain jacket with the collar turned up against the October chill.

“Don’t tell me,” Morse forestalled Lewis as the latter opened his mouth. “We’ve been called out.”

“Er, yes, sir,” replied Lewis. “Body found in a house up near Botley.”

Morse let out a long, aggravated sigh. He’d been hoping to catch up on his existing case load today, not be assigned a new one.

The wind whipped leaves onto the windscreen of the jag as the two men drove through Oxford towards the latest crime scene, the classical music station turned up loud despite Lewis’s routine grumbling. They stopped in a quaint, if slightly shabby, north Oxford neighbourhood. A fine drizzling mist was drifting through the air as they crossed the road towards house number eleven. Morse took a deep breath and smiled to himself. He loved the smell in the air on rainy fall days. The hint of petrichor discernible over the sweet scent of fallen leaves always reminded him of Lewis.

Morse became instantly sombre, however, upon stepping into the crime scene. The small parlour showed obvious signs of a domestic struggle—overturned furniture, objects strewn across the floor. In the centre of the chaos lay the body of a young woman, eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling. Max was bent over the corpse, delicately poking at a bloody wound in her torso.

“The victim is one Evelynn Greene,” Lewis said grimly, having followed Morse into the sitting room. Morse repressed a shudder at the sight of the body, closing his eyes as nausea clawed briefly at his gut. He felt a soft, affectionate touch at the small of his back, and turned to smile gratefully at Lewis before stepping away from the body to examine the rest of the sitting room.

“Neighbours heard a disturbance late last night and phoned it into us this morning, raised voices followed by what they thought was a gunshot,” reported Lewis grimly, flipping through his notebook.

“Probably a domestic, then?” asked Morse, scanning the room carefully.

“Could be, sir,” replied Lewis. “But the wall safe is open, too, so we can’t rule out a robbery.”

“Well, Max?” asked Morse, turning back in the direction of the body. “What have you got for me?”

The pathologist looked up from his examination of the corpse, attempting to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his wrist to avoid touching them with his gloved hands. “The fatal wound was a single gunshot to the chest. Probably sometime between 8 pm and 3 am.”

“Can’t you be more precise than that, Max?”

Max sat back on his heels and gave Morse a withering look.

“I know, I know, I need to wait for the post-mortem,” Morse forestalled him, waving a hand in Max’s direction.

A small smirk crossed Max’s face. “Good, so you can be trained,” he replied.

“Sir,” called Lewis, still bending over the desk. “Here’s a firearm certificate, a revolver and two rifles registered to Charlie Greene.”

“Oh?” asked Morse, crossing the room to Lewis.

“The revolver isn’t in the safe, though,” continued Lewis, frowning back and forth between the open door of the wall safe and the paper he held in his hand.

“Hmm,” replied Morse, glancing over Lewis’s shoulder at the firearms certificate. “Perhaps the revolver was the murder weapon, then?”

Lewis grinned. “What, so you’re saying it was Mr. Greene in the parlour with the revolver, sir?”

Morse glared at his unrepentant sergeant. “Our job is already too much like a bloody game of Cluedo, Lewis, no need to rub it in.”

A brief search of the rest of the house turned up no evidence of the missing gun, or anything else of particular interest. “You said a neighbour rang the police, Lewis?” asked Morse as they made their way back through the house to the front door.

“Yes, one Margaret McDonnel,” replied Lewis. “Little old lady who lives next door. She’s outside, sir, if you’d like to speak to her.”

Morse led the way across the front garden towards a small knot of curious onlookers in the street.

“Mrs. McDonnel?” asked Morse, approaching the white-haired woman whom Lewis had indicated, who was hovering around the edge of the police perimeter, craning her neck in curiosity.

“Aye, that’s me,” she replied, shifting her focus to Morse and Lewis.

“Chief Inspector Morse,” Morse said, “I understand you phoned the police last night about a domestic disturbance?”

“Aye,” Mrs. McDonnel replied, shooting a quick, curious glance at the PC entering the house before returning her attention to Morse. “Alfie and I heard raised voices just after midnight, when we were putting the cat out. It sounded like a domestic—not an uncommon occurrence over there, let me tell you—” she confided in a lowered voice.

Lewis raised his eyebrows as he dutifully scribbled in his notebook.

“The Greenes fought often?” inquired Morse blandly.

“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. McDonnel, “Mr. Greene is a bit too fond of the bottle, if you know what I mean. Horrible temper. Also seemed to be a bit of a wandering type… Poor Evelynn…”

“A wandering type?” asked Morse.

“Well, why else would Mrs. Gavins be in and out of the place at all hours?”

“Mrs. Gavins?” asked Morse, with more interest this time.

“Elaine Gavins, she lives in number sixteen,” said Mrs. McDonnel, voice low and conspiratorial, an excited glint in her eye for having someone to listen to her gossip. “Always hanging around the Greenes’, Elaine was. Visiting at all sorts of odd hours, whenever Evelynn happened to be out. And then, last night—“ Mrs. McDonnel dropped her voice even lower, and Morse was obliged to lean forward to catch her words as she continued in a half-whisper. “Last night, she was _still_ over when Evelynn came home. About five minutes after Evelynn went in, Elaine ran out, all in a tizzy, clutching her shoes in her hand! Scurried back across the road quick as you please! And _then_ the shouting started at number eleven,” She finished with a small nod, trying and failing to hide a satisfied smirk.

Morse cast a surprised glance at Lewis, who raised his eyebrows significantly in return. “And all this happened around midnight?”

“Ooh, no, this was more around seven!” said Mrs. McDonnel. “It went quiet after a while, I thought they’d sorted it out, but then the shouting started _again,_ a bit before eleven. And then…” Mrs. McDonnel glanced around nervously, then leaned even closer to Morse, who fought the urge to step back, “I thought I heard… a _gunshot._ When we didn’t see Evelynn put the bins out this morning, that’s when we called the police.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McDonnel, you’ve been very helpful,” said Morse, pulling a business card from his pocket and passing it over the police tape to her. “If you think of anything else we should know, please don’t hesitate to call us.”

“Well, Mrs. McDonnel was certainly chatty,” said Lewis, once the two coppers were once more seated in the jag and driving away from the crime scene.

“And very informative,” replied Morse, eyes on the road as they took a curve at speed.

“Did it sound to you like she suspected the husband, sir?” asked Lewis

“Oh, very much so, Lewis,” returned the songbird.

“Evelynn Greene’s husband works as a gamekeeper in Wytham Woods,” Lewis said.

“Well, we’d better go pay him a visit, hadn’t we, Lewis?”

The drizzle continued as the two coppers exited the jag at the Wytham Wood car park and made their way towards the gamekeeper’s cottage. Finding it deserted, Morse led Lewis around the back of the small building, to where the sounds of wood being split were audible over the faint hiss of the rain. Standing in the drizzle was a dark-haired man of medium build. Most of his features were obscured by the damp anorak he wore, and he swung an axe at a pile of logs with a sense of weariness.

“Mr. Greene?” called Morse. 

The man turned, looking wary. “Aye, who wan’s t’ know?” he replied in a thick West Country accent.

“Chief Inspector Morse, this is Sergeant Lewis,” said Morse, briefly flashing his warrant card before stowing it back in his coat pocket.

Charlie Greene definitely seemed discomfited, although he tried to appear casual as he leaned against the fence. “How can I help you fellas?” he asked.

“I’m afraid we’re here about your wife, sir,” began Morse.

“What about Evelynn?” he asked, frowning severely.

“I’m afraid she was found dead in your home this morning,” said Morse evenly.

Many expressions crossed Charlie Greene’s face, almost too rapidly to follow. Morse thought he distinguished shock, anger, and—most ominously—a hint of guilt-tinged relief before Charlie’s face settled into a blank, expressionless mask.

“Wha’?” he asked, just the right amount of shock tinging his voice to seem convincing. “No, that can’ be!”

“Weren’t you at home last night, Mr. Greene?” asked Morse.

“Yes! I mean, no, not later…”

“Well? Were you, or weren’t you?”

Charlie Greene gave an explosive sigh and ran his hands through his hair in distraction. “Look, I didn’ sleep at home last night, alright? I stayed at my brother Henry’s.”

“Why is that, Mr. Greene?”

“Well…” Greene scuffed his foot against the damp ground, looking rather uncomfortable. “Well, Evelynn and I had a bit of a row last night. I wanted to give her some space, like, so I stayed with my brother.”

“A row? What was this row about?”

Charlie Greene was definitely blushing now, but looked up at Morse and Lewis defiantly. “Tha’s none of your business!”

“Your wife is _dead_ , Mr. Greene,” snapped Morse, fixing the man with the full intensity of his bright blue gaze. “I’d say anything that you two rowed about hours before she was murdered is _very much_ police business.”

Somewhat cowed, Charlie Greene let out another flustered sigh and returned his gaze to the ground, one hand going absently to his hair again. After a pause of half a minute, he finally continued. “Look, Evelynn walked in on me with another woman, alright? She was furious, threatened to leave me, and I said some… well, not very nice things to her and all.”

Morse raised his eyebrows, and Charlie Greene seemed compelled to continue

“So I went down to the local pub, to get away and give her some space. Gave Henry a ring and he came to join me.”

“Which pub is this?”

“The White Hart,” replied Charlie.

“And how long did you stay there?”

“I’m not exactly sure…” hedged Charlie, frowning into the middle distance in concentration, “It’s all a bit fuzzy, like—I got totally pissed, see.”

“Well, what’s your best estimate?” asked Morse impatiently

“I got there ‘round eight, left after eleven? We stayed pretty much ‘til closin’ time.”

“And you’re sure you were both there all evening?”

“Fairly sure, yeah…”

“And after you left the White Hart?”

“Henry musta taken me back to his place. I woke up on the couch this mornin’ and came straight to work.”

“And where was Henry this morning?”

“When I woke up Henry was gone. Gone to work, I assume.”

“I see,” said Morse. “Now, were you angry with Evelynn for walking in on you? For threatening to leave you?”

“Now, look here,” said Charlie, starting to seem angry again. “Just because we had a row doesn’ mean I’d want to hurt my wife.”

“Of course not, Mr. Greene,” said Morse in a carefully polite tone, starting to turn away.

“I mean it!” cried Charlie desperately. “I wouldn’ hurt her!”

“Can you think of anyone that would?”

Charlie hesitated, licking his lips before answering. “No, not that I can think of.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greene. I have just one more question,” Morse said, turning back. “Do you own a handgun, sir?”

“So what if I do?” asked Greene, instantly defensive.

“Your wife was shot, Mr. Greene.”

“Are you accusin’ me of murderin’ my own wife?”

“Just a routine question, sir," replied Morse, giving Greene a quick, tight smile that more closely resembled a grimace. “You keep your gun in a safe?”

“Aye, I keep it locked up proper,” replied Greene, still glaring at Morse with suspicion.

“Have you handled it recently?”

Greene hesitated, licking his lips nervously before answering “no… not recently, like.”

Mentally noting the lie, Morse continued. “Were you aware your handgun is missing, sir?”

“Missin’?” Greene’s look of wide-eyed surprise was more convincing than Morse expected it to be, but not entirely sincere. “What, it’s not in the safe? I’m sure I have no idea where it could be, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greene, that will be all for now.” With a sideways glance at Lewis, he indicated that it was time for them to leave.

Back at the nick, Lewis and Morse began methodically gathering all the files they needed on the three Greenes. They settled to begin their research, the silence unbroken except for the rain now drumming rhythmically against the window. At length, Lewis looked up from his perusal of Evelynn Greene’s file, a frown creasing his brow. “Sir,” he called, rousing the songbird from his own studious pursuits.

“What is it, Lewis?” asked Morse, looking slightly cross at being disturbed.

“It says here that Evelynn Greene was arrested once, about five years ago on drugs charges.”

“Drugs charges?” asked Morse, his frown deepening from crossness to puzzlement

“Apparently so…” returned Lewis, flipping through the files. “It says here that Evelynn Greene, then Evelynn Lawson, was picked up for selling pot back in 1983….” Lewis tailed off as he continued to read. Morse was about to return to his own research when Lewis’s “Oh, sir,” made him glance up again. “What?” He asked.

“You’ll never guess who was picked up with her.”

“Oh?”

“Henry Greene, Charlie’s brother.”

“Really?” asked Morse incredulously, coming to stare over Lewis’s shoulder at the old file.

“Yeah, apparently the investigators made a deal, and Henry took all the fall. They let Evelynn go free, and Henry went to prison. I wonder why on earth he would take the fall like that…”

Morse rubbed his chin in thought, staring into the middle distance. “Dig up all the old interview records for this case, Lewis. I want to know everything about this.”

Evening was settling around the station like a damp towel when Lewis finally returned from records with the relevant files. 

“I’ve got the interview records for that drugs case, sir,” said Lewis, returning to the office with a large cardboard box in his arms.

“Ah, Lewis, perfect timing!” exclaimed Morse, glancing up from the pile of papers on his own desk. “I believe I’ve just found some vital information!”

“Vital information, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Morse, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’ve been reviewing Charlie Greene’s file, Lewis. Apparently, the police have been called to domestic disturbances at the Greene residence _three times_ this year already. One time, Evelynn had a black eye. Another, she had a broken wrist.”

Lewis hissed in displeasure.

“Furthermore,” continued Morse, “Charlie Greene was charged for beating up a former girlfriend when he was only seventeen. The charges were later dropped, but the pattern remains. Greene is obviously a consistent abuser.”

“So you think it was the husband, then?” asked Lewis, getting caught up in this new train of evidence.

“I don’t think, Lewis,” replied Morse with an air of smug superiority. “I deduce and hypothesize, and currently I hypothesize that the husband may be our chief suspect.”

“He certainly was very suspicious today,” replied Lewis. “He certainly seemed to be hiding something”

“Indeed he was,” mused Morse, trailing off thoughtfully. Then, with a deep sigh, he roused himself from his reverie. “Anyway, what did you have for me, Lewis?”

“Oh, right!” Lewis dumped the files of interview transcripts onto his desk, causing a puff of dust to rise into the air, and began to sort through them. “I have all the information on that drugs case with Henry Greene and Evelynn, sir,”

Waving a hand to dispel the cloud of dust, Morse snagged the top three files and added them to his pile. “Go get some supper before we start, Lewis,” the songbird said wearily. “It’s going to be a long night.

Hours later found the two men still pouring over the interview transcripts from a seemingly inconsequential drugs case from five years before. No sounds broke the exhausted silence except for the occasional rustle of pages being turned, or the scratch of a pen as Lewis copied some fact or another into his notebook.

“Sir, look at this,” called Lewis. “It says here that Henry and Evelynn were engaged.”

“Engaged?” asked Morse incredulously, his head snapping up to stare at his sergeant, “to be married?”

“Well, yeah, I assume so,” replied Lewis.

Morse sat back, one hand pressed thoughtfully to his mouth. “Well,” he said at length, “that would certainly explain why Henry Greene would take all the fall on a drugs case to save Evelynn.”

“You don’t suppose it could be the brother, sir?” asked Lewis. “I mean, he’s probably jealous that Charlie married Evelynn.”

Morse considered this for a long moment, rubbing absently at his mouth with one hand as he frowned into the middle distance. “I don’t think so, Lewis,” he said at length. “I think the husband is the one we need to focus on. After so many years I’ve found that it’s almost always the husband.”

“The husband has an alibi, though,” said Lewis, attempting to stifle a yawn. “He said today his brother will vouch for him.”

Morse frowned at the papers in front of him for a few more seconds, then sighed again. “Let’s call it a day, Lewis,” said Morse, standing with a slight groan. “We can go check on Charlie Greene’s alibi in the morning.”

* * *

Back at Morse’s house, the songbird collapsed onto his sofa with a groan. “God, Lewis, what a day…” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

Lewis sank down slowly next to him, stifling a yawn. “Well, at least we made some good progress, sir,”

Morse nodded, still not removing his face from his hands. His posture, slumped forward bonelessly, gave the impression of a man almost overpowered by exhaustion. Despite that, Lewis felt the warmth of the songbird’s attractive pull. His silver hair shone bewitchingly in the low light of the lamp. Lewis could not help tracing the strong, seductive lines of Morse’s shoulders with his eyes, admiring the graceful curve of his spine beneath his shirt. Feeling a sudden rush of affection and a sudden need to reach out to the man beside him, Lewis wrapped one arm around Morse’s shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. Morse groaned with pleasure as Lewis made contact, leaning into the touch longingly.

“Could you stay for a few minutes, Lewis?” he asked softly, almost pleadingly.

Again, a powerful ache of affection and longing rose in Lewis’s chest, compounded by the heat of Morse’s presence. “Of course I can stay, sir,” he replied.

Morse instantly abandoned his slouch to curl against Lewis’s side, head falling sideways onto Lewis’s chest. He let out a deep sigh, half contentment and half exhaustion. Lewis felt a gentle tingle against his chest, arm, and hand, an indication that Morse was hungrier than he had been letting on. Lewis knew it was late, and that he should be getting home, but for the moment he didn’t care. He simply pulled the songbird closer and let his exhausted eyes drift closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay, this story is turning out about twice as long as I anticipated! I hope you enjoy the new chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: referenced physical abuse and stalking. Proceed accordingly.

The next morning found the two detectives retracing the route they’d taken yesterday to Wytham Woods through a light autumn drizzle. Morse looked happier and healthier for the feed last night, and was even smiling to himself as he navigated the jag through the autumn woods. It transpired that Charlie Greene had done his recently paroled brother, Henry, a favour, and gotten him a temporary job working at Wytham Woods estate.

Upon arriving at the carpark, Morse and Lewis exited the jag and proceeded towards a small worksite next to the gamekeeper’s cottage. A man who looked very like Charlie was busy digging in a tall pile of compost, but turned when he saw the coppers approaching out of the corner of his eye.

“Mr. Henry Greene?”

“Yes?” Henry Greene looked rather nervous as he stuck his shovel upright in the pile of earth and turned to face Morse and Lewis.

“Chief Inspector Morse, this is Sergeant Lewis,” said Morse. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts last night.”

“Is this abou’ Evelynn?” asked Henry Greene instantly. His West Country accent, although not as strong as his brother’s, was still discernible.

“Yes, it is,” replied Morse.

Henry Greene swallowed rather thickly, looking as though he were on the verge of tears.

“We spoke with your brother yesterday,” continued Morse. “And he said that he was with you all yesterday evening. Is that right, sir?”

“Well, wha’ do you mean by evening?” hedged Greene.

“So he wasn’t with you all evening?” cut in Morse shrewdly.

“I dunno! What do you mean by evening?” asked Greene, sounding slightly desperate.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened yesterday,” suggested Lewis, trying to calm Henry Greene down with a soothing tone of voice. “Charlie told us that he called you to come meet him at the pub?”

“Yeah, tha’s right. Charlie called me ‘round eight or so, really upset. He told me about Evelynn walkin’ in on him with the neighbour. He kept goin’ on about how he’d messed up and his life was ruined. So I went down to find him quick as I could. He was already pretty pissed by the time I got there.”

“And both of you stayed at the pub the whole evening?” asked Lewis.

“yeah, until closing. Well…” Henry broke off, sounding uncertain. When Lewis raised his eyebrows, Henry continued. “Well, Charlie was in the loo for a long time at one point, almost half an hour? But I assumed he was just being sick…”

“is it possible that he left the pub during that time?” asked Morse sharply.

Henry shrugged. “I suppose so?” he said. “I wasn’ paying the closest attention.”

“And you both left the pub near closing time?”

“Yes, I took him back to my place, put him to bed.”

“And he stayed there all night?”

“I think so?” said Henry Greene, sounding rather uncertain again.

“You can’t be sure?” asked Morse keenly.

Henry Greene shrugged again. “Like I said. I drove him home, set him up on my couch, then went to bed. He was there passed out when I left for work in the morning. I thought I heard some noises aroun’ midnight, but it could’ve just been him gettin’ up for some water.”

Morse nodded, looking thoughtful. “Just one more thing, sir,” he continued. “Could you tell us about the drugs you used to deal with Evelynn Greene?” 

Henry Greene stiffened noticeably at these words, but then forced himself to relax.

“It was jus’ a little bit of dope. We were young and stupid, didn’ think there’d be any harm.” He sighed and shook his head. “If only we’d known…”

“you took all the fall for Evelynn?” asked Morse

“Yeah,” said Henry morosely, scuffing his foot against the ground. “Thought I’d be all noble, save the damsel from distress an’ all.”

“Was your prison sentence what ended the engagement?” enquired Morse.

Henry looked slightly panicked. “How did you know abou’ that?” he demanded

“It was in the interview transcripts, Mr. Greene,” said Morse forcefully.

Greene took another deep breath, then let out an explosive sigh. “Tha’ figures,” he said, sounding inexplicably relieved.

“So, was that why your engagement ended?” asked Lewis

Greene shrugged. “More or less,” he said with a sigh. “She broke it off about a month after I went in. Said it was just too hard.”

“That must have been tough” Lewis sympathized.

Henry shrugged morosely again.

“And how did you feel when you got out of prison to find she’d married your brother?” asked Morse, displaying what Lewis considered an astonishing lack of tact. He shot his superior a look, which Morse ignored with practiced ease.

“Well, I was a bit upset, I suppose,” said Greene. “but we were engaged so long ago, I figured I should just let the past go, you know? As long as she was happy, tha’s all that mattered.”

“Did you know that Evelynn had called the police to help with domestic disturbances three times this year?” asked Morse softly. “That doesn’t sound like she was happy to me.”

Lewis wished there was a tactful way to kick Morse in the shin without Greene noticing. He had no idea why the songbird felt the need to rub salt in what may be a still-painful wound for Greene.

Greene flushed, looking angry. “I didn’ know, no.” he said. He paused, then added in a dejected tone, “but it doesn’ surprise me.”

“No?” asked Morse, raising his eyebrows curiously.

“No,” sighed Greene. “Charlie’s always been a bit rough around the edges. He’s my brother, and I love him, but, if we’re bein’ honest, he was the one my parents expected to end up in the pen.”

“Really?” Morse sounded only mildly surprised at this piece of intelligence. Lewis tried to school his face to neutrality, following his guv’s lead.

“Yeah. There was that incident with his first girlfriend, Christine. And there have been lots of things… well, anyway. He has a temper, tha’s all I mean.”

“Do you think he could be capable of hurting Evelynn?” asked Morse, more keenly.

“Honestly? Yes,” Greene looked pained, but resigned. “I know it’s horrible to say somethin’ like that about my own brother, but it’s only the truth.”

“Thank you, sir, you’ve been very helpful,” said Morse. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.”

Greene nodded, looking relieved, and watched them as the two men turned and walked away back to the jag.

“Well, my money’s still on the husband,” said Lewis, once the two men were headed back to Oxford through the thickening rain

“Mine too, Lewis,” replied Morse. “But we should probably visit her workplace, just to be thorough.”

__

Evelynn Greene had been a typist for a posh law firm near the centre of town. Morse and Lewis entered the richly-furnished lobby to find an attractive blonde receptionist seated behind a tall, sleek desk. A nod from Morse indicated to Lewis that he should take the lead. 

“How may I help you gentlemen?” asked the pretty blonde receptionist, all politely professional smiles.

Lewis flashed his warrant card. “Ma’am, we’re with the Thames Valley police. I’m Sergeant Lewis, this is Chief inspector Morse. We’re here about Evelynn Greene?”

The secretary’s face fell sadly. “Oh, yeah, I heard about that. Such a terrible tragedy. Would you like to speak to her boss?”

“Yes please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Just a mo,” said the secretary, picking up a phone. “Mr. Cavendish?” she said, speaking into the receiver. “The police are here to see you about Evelynn. Alright, I’ll tell them.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Cavendish will be out to see you in just a moment.”

“Ta,” said Lewis. Turning, he examined his surroundings. It was rather a grand office, with wood panelled walls and elegant chairs lining one wall of the lobby. It seemed like a nice place to work, especially compared to the shabby Thames Valley police station, with its rickety chairs and mismatched desks.

Just then, an elderly man in a crisp suit came striding into view from the hallway behind the reception desk.

“Mr. Cavendish?” asked Morse.

“Yes, hello,” said the lawyer, shaking hands with both Morse and Lewis before gesturing them down the hall. “I understand you’re here about Evelynn Greene? Poor girl, it’s such a tragedy.”

When the two coppers were seated in the office’s visitor’s chairs, Cavendish settled ostentatiously behind his polished mahogany desk. “Now, how may I help you gentlemen?” he asked, interlacing his fingers on the desk’s surface.

“We have a few questions regarding Evelynn,” said Morse, crossing his ankles as he regarded the sleekly groomed man behind the desk. “What kind of employee was she?”

“A very good employee,” replied Cavendish, arching his eyebrows. “Always kind, always very prompt with her work. Rarely took sick days.”

“And did the rest of the office think so, too? Did she get along with her co-workers?”

“Yes, very well, as far as I know. There were never many problems except for, well…” Cavendish broke off, frowning in displeasure.

“Except for…?” interjected Morse.

“There was a bit of a fuss between her and one of the paralegals, Gregory Piers,” said Cavendish, looking rather discomfited.

“A bit of fuss?” repeated Morse, raising an eyebrow sardonically.

“Well, Evelynn was very kind, and very attractive too,” said Cavendish. “Exactly the sort of woman who lonely men can’t help chasing.”

“And was Gregory Piers one of those lonely men?” asked Morse blandly.

Cavendish nodded, pursing his lips.

“How did things resolve?” asked Lewis.

“Evelynn complained to my partner and I, and we had a talk with Gregory regarding appropriate workplace behaviour. It is clearly outlined in company policy…”

“What is clearly outlined?” cut in Morse

“That we do not tolerate, erm, inappropriate physical contact between members of staff,” said Cavendish, turning faintly pink. “We explained to Gregory that his behaviour had been beyond the pale.”

“What behaviour was this?” asked Morse

“Evelynn accused him of stalking and harassment,” said Cavendish. “Following her home, not leaving her alone at work, even grabbing her a couple times.”

“And did Piers stop harassing her?”

Cavendish squirmed uncomfortably under the songbird’s piercing gaze. “Well, after the second complaint we moved him to another department,” said Cavendish evasively.

“But Evelynn still felt the need to take out a restraining order against him?”

Lewis blinked, surprised at the information. Morse had neglected to tell him about the restraining order yesterday. It must have come up in the songbird’s research

Cavendish also looked abashed and surprised “I wasn’t aware…” he began, but Morse cut him off.

“Did Evelynn ever discuss her home life with you or any of the other employees?” the songbird asked, abruptly changing tack.

“Well, no, not with me personally,” said Cavendish. “But the whole office had the impression that her home life… well, wasn’t the happiest.”

“Really? And what gave them that impression?”

“Just office gossip, really, but she’d often show up at work with minor injuries. Black eyes, bruises, a broken wrist once. Everyone assumed it was her husband.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cavendish, that’s all for now,” said Morse, rising. Lewis and Cavendish rose to join him, and the two coppers made their way back along the hall.

“Perhaps we could see Evelynn’s desk?” enquired Morse.

Cavendish looked slightly surprised. “Is that necessary?” he asked.

“Just a routine part of the investigation, sir,” replied Morse blandly.

Cavendish led Morse and Lewis back through the richly furnished lobby and through another door, into a common office space that held about a dozen paralegals and secretaries, all typing away industriously. Upon Cavendish’s entrance with the two men, all typing ceased as the workers looked up curiously.

“This is Inspector Morse and Sergeant Lewis,” said Cavendish, gesturing to each in turn. “They just need to have a brief look around Evelynn’s desk. Please, carry on, everyone.”

Slowly, the typing resumed, along with an undercurrent of whispers and sidelong glances cast at the two policemen as they crossed the room to the desk Cavendish indicated to them and began to search.

A poke through Evelynn’s desk did not reveal any vital information, however. They discovered neat stacks of papers, a neat drawer of office supplies, and a class schedule for her evening art classes at the university.

“Look, sir,” said Lewis, pointing to the schedule. “She had the class crossed off the evening she died—it must have been cancelled.”

“Or she had reason to want to skip, Lewis,” replied Morse.

With a jerk of his head, Morse indicated to Lewis to follow him into the conference room. Lewis followed, glad to avoid the curious stares of the room full of workers.

“Well, what do you think, Lewis?” asked Morse, dropping into one of the elegant chairs and propping his feet up on the conference table.

Lewis cast his boss a mildly reproachful look, but Morse made no move to shift his position. “Well, this information about Piers is certainly interesting…” Lewis mused. “I suppose we’d better add him as a suspect now. He could’ve killed her in a jealous rage?”

“It’s certainly possible,” agreed Morse, although he still looked unconvinced.

“Where’s Evelynn?” Lewis turned around, surprised at being addressed from behind. A man had followed the two coppers into the conference room, and was standing, tense and angry, a few feet behind them. He was tall and wiry, with thinning, greasy blonde hair and thick glasses that magnified his muddy brown eyes. He gave off a sense of nervous energy and instability, with his hands fidgeting with the cuffs of his slightly wrinkled shirt and his eyes darting rapidly back and forth between Morse and Lewis.

“Gregory Piers?” enquired Morse, arching a quizzical brow.

“Yes,” said the other man grudgingly. “I know you know what happened to Evelynn, tell me!”

Lewis raised his eyebrows at Morse. Morse gave half a nod, which Lewis interpreted as permission to tell Piers the truth. “I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr. Piers,” replied Lewis, trying to make his tone as gentle as possible.

Piers seemed to go rigid with shock. His face went very pale, then very red as he balled his hands into fists at his side. “No!” he shouted, shaking slightly. “You’re lying! She’s not dead!”

“I’m afraid we’re not lying, Mr. Piers,” cut in Morse, standing suddenly and stepping around Lewis to confront the angry man. “Evelynn Greene’s body was found yesterday morning in her home. We’re estimating that she died sometime after midnight the night before.”

Piers looked frantically back and forth from Morse to Lewis, as though waiting for one of them to shout ‘April fools!’. When neither copper’s expression changed, however, Piers sank abruptly into a vacant chair, hiding his face behind shaking hands. “No,” he whispered, quiet and broken.

“Do you have any idea who might want to harm Mrs. Greene?” asked Lewis, glancing warily at the distraught figure. He was rather startled by the abrupt change in Piers’s demeanour.

Piers’ head snapped up instantly, face now tight with anger. “Someone killed her? She was murdered?”

“We’re treating this as a murder enquiry, yes,” replied Morse cautiously, glancing at Lewis sidelong, apparently also taken aback by the man’s whiplash reactions. “Do you have any idea—”

“Her goddamn drunkard of a husband, that’s who,” Piers growled, making to rise from his seat.

“Few weeks ago, she came to work with a black eye. She claimed she ‘fell down,’ hah!”

Morse and Lewis exchange significant looks. Morse appeared rather smug to have another witness confirming his theory that Charlie Greene had been a danger to his wife.

“Did Evelynn ever mention that her husband hurt her?” asked Morse.

“No, but she didn’t have to, the whole office knew,” growled Piers, clenching and unclenching his fists angrily. Then, abruptly, Piers’s mood seemed to shift again. “If you want to find out who killed her,” he said, voice now level and reasonable. “…you should talk to her husband.”

“We’re already investigating Charlie Greene,” said Morse placatingly.

“Good,” said Piers savagely, anger flaring in his eyes again.

“Incidentally, where were you on the night of the murder, Mr. Piers?” asked Morse, rising his eyebrows inquisitively.

“I was at my mother’s house, why?” asked Piers, glaring suspiciously.

“Just a routine question, sir’’ replied Morse, giving his standard non-answer. “What time did you arrive at your mother’s?”

“Around six, then I left at ten and went home.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Morse. “That will be all for now.”

Back at the nick, Morse and Lewis continued their investigation, now expanding the list of suspects to include Gregory Piers. Lewis was pouring over Gregory Piers’ file, noting that Evelynn was not the only woman who had a restraining order out against the unstable man, when Morse’s phone rang shrilly, interrupting his thoughts.

Morse leaned forward and plucked the phone off the receiver. “Morse, here,” he said. Then, “Oh, Max! Good to hear from you! You have something for us?”

Lewis returned his attention to his notes. At the bottom of the page something caught his eye—a receipt of purchase for a new hunting rifle, dated two weeks previously.

“Thank you, we’ll be there,” finished Morse, before hanging up the phone. “Come on, Lewis, we’re wanted in the pathology lab!” he called impatiently, standing up and pulling his suit jacket back on.

“Oh, sir, I have some information on Gregory Piers,” said Lewis. He glanced up at the songbird as Morse was straightening his tie, and found himself momentarily caught by the elegance of the songbird’s long, graceful fingers and the smooth, silky skin of his neck. Lewis’s thoughts temporarily fled as he was gripped by a sudden desire to run his hands over that lovely skin, feel it under his own fingers.

“Yes, Lewis?” Morse prompted delicately, shrugging on his coat over his jacket.

“Oh, right, sorry” said Lewis, coming back down to earth “Apparently Piers has no former convictions, but he  _ does  _ own a rifle. I thought it might be relevant, seeing as our victim was shot?”

“You’re right, Lewis, it could be relevant,” replied Morse. “I guess we’ll need to wait until the autopsy to see whether the bullet was a closer match to Piers’s rifle or Greene’s revolver.”

“Piers definitely seemed unbalanced enough to kill someone,” said Lewis darkly, thinking of the man’s radical emotional swings earlier that day.

“I think it was the husband, though,” said Morse, preparing to leave the office for the pathology lab.

“You’re just too fond of being able to say that it was Mr. Greene with the revolver, sir, that’s the real problem,” said Lewis, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Morse glared at his unrepentant sergeant before stalking from the room in a dignified huff. Lewis, chuckling immoderately, pulled on his own coat and followed. 

  
  


“Well, Max, what have you got for me?”

Morse, Lewis, and Max were standing around the sheet-draped form of Evelynn Greene in the brightly-lit mortuary. The smell of antiseptic and cleaning agents was strong in Lewis’s nose, masking any other odours the room had to offer.

“As I stated at the scene, the fatal wound was a single gunshot to the chest, delivered at relatively close range. The shot penetrated the lungs, causing her to suffocate.” said Max, pulling back the sheet to reveal the torso of the corpse.

Morse winced.

“The bullet remained lodged in the body, and was extracted when I performed the autopsy,” continued Max, deliberately ignoring Morse’s squeamishness. “Forensics has it now, and they should have conclusive results for you tomorrow.”

Morse let out an impatient sigh. “If you had to guess, though, Max, would you say the wound was caused by a handgun or a rifle?”

“I don’t guess, Morse,” said Max severely. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Morse frowned crossly at the floor.

“Do you have a more accurate time of death now, doctor?” asked Lewis.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” replied Max, flipping through his notes. “I can now definitively narrow the time range to between 10:30 PM and 12:30 AM.”

“Well, that’s something, at least,” said Lewis, hoping the news would cheer his superior up.

“So, it still could have been Charlie Greene, based on when Henry said he left the pub…” mused Morse, running a hand over his jaw in thought. “Do let us know when the ballistics report comes back, Max?” 

“Yes, Morse,” replied the doctor, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“Alright,” sighed Morse, straightening. “We’d better get back to the investigation.

Evening was drawing in by the time the two coppers made it back to the station. Lewis took a moment to stop in the canteen for a bite of food and a fresh cup of tea before returning to their office.

Morse was speaking on the phone when Lewis entered, his tone making it clear that he was speaking to Chief Superintendent Strange. Morse was never half so polite to anyone as he was when speaking to his superior officer. 

“Alright, yes, sir,” said Morse, jotting a note down on a piece of scrap paper that Lewis thought may actually be an important piece of evidence from the 1983 drugs case. “Yes, sir. Goodbye.” Morse hung up the phone, picked up the sheet of paper, then headed for the office door. Passing Lewis’s desk, he paused. “Lovely, thank you, Lewis!” said Morse, snagging the fresh cup of canteen tea off the edge of Lewis’s desk.

“Oi! You don’t even need to drink tea!” protested Lewis, reaching in vain for the cup as Morse passed.

Morse gave Lewis an exasperated, incredulous look. “That doesn’t mean I  _ can’t  _ drink it, Lewis!” he said, in the tone of one explaining something very straightforward to a petulant child. Rolling his eyes, Morse exited the office, Lewis’s tea still clutched in his hand.

Lewis glared at Morse’s back until he was out of sight. “You only took it ‘cause it was mine,” he muttered morosely under his breath, then sighed and stood to go fetch himself another cup from the canteen.

The clock on the office wall was preparing to strike 8 pm before Inspector Morse returned, looking tired and frustrated. Lewis, too, was feeling tired--he thought he may actually fall asleep on his desk if he had to read any more of these old files. “Let’s call it a night, Lewis,” Morse said, reaching for his coat and keys. “There’s not much more we can do this late at night. We need to talk with Charlie Greene’s mistress, but that can wait until morning.”

Lewis pushed his papers away and stretched, trying to ease the stiffness from his shoulders and back. He winced as his neck twinged with pain. He’d spent too long hunched over his desk. To his surprise, he suddenly felt gentle fingers massaging his shoulders, persuading the tense muscles to relax. He glanced around at Morse, who was standing behind his chair, an expression of gentle concern momentarily spread over his often hard features. His normally penetrating blue gaze seemed oddly brittle as he carefully worked the stiffness from Lewis’s back and neck. At last, his hands stilled, resting gently on Lewis’s shoulders before pulling away. “Go home, Lewis,” he said softly, gently. “You’ve done more than enough for the day.” Wordlessly, Lewis nodded. With one final, brittle look, Morse swept from the office, leaving the now familiar aching longing in his wake.

Morse was already in the office when Lewis arrived the next morning, filling in a crossword puzzle while classical music swelled from the small wireless on his desk.

“Shall we confirm with Mrs. Gavins today, sir?” asked Lewis loudly.

“I suppose we’d better,” replied the songbird, looking up and sadly switching off the radio.

After a pleasant drive through the meandering streets of Oxford, they stopped back in the neighbourhood of the crime. This time crossing the street to house number sixteen, Lewis rang the bell. The hydrangeas by the door, turned yellow by the autumn chill, swayed slightly in the breeze as they waited for the door to be opened.

At length, Lewis heard the scrape of a lock being drawn back and the door opened to reveal a slight, mousy-haired woman, a look of puzzlement on her heart-shaped face.

“Mrs. Elaine Gavins?” asked Lewis

“Yes, that’s me,” she said

“Sergeant Lewis, this is Chief Inspector Morse. May we come in? we have a few questions for you.”

Looking startled, Mrs. Gavins stepped back and allowed the two coppers to pass her into the sitting room.

Morse settled himself on the sofa, and Lewis perched beside him, casting a glance around the bright but slightly shabby sitting room.

“Is this about Evelynn?” she asked as she seated herself in a faded armchair facing Morse and Lewis.

Morse nodded once in assent.

“I see,” said Mrs. Gavins. “So sad, that.”

“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Gavins?”

“Ethan? No, he’s at work, why?”

“I’m afraid we have to ask you some uncomfortable questions, Mrs. Gavins,” explained Lewis apologetically.

Mrs. Gavins blushed faintly, but met Lewis’s eyes steadily. “I’m sure I’ve got nothing to hide,” she said, almost managing to conceal a faint quaver in her voice.

“Well, in that case, I’m sure you won’t mind telling me where you were at five pm on day of the murder,” said Morse, smiling too brightly at the flustered woman across from him.

Mrs. Gavins’ blush deepened from rose to scarlet. She glanced away before saying “I was here at home, of course!”

“Can anyone confirm that?” asked Morse sardonically.

“Well, no,” said Mrs. Gavins. “but my husband got home at eight, he’ll tell you I was here then!”

“You’re lying, Mrs. Gavins,” said Morse softly.

“No, I’m not!” she insisted, twisting her hands together in her lap.

“You weren’t here at 5 pm on that night,” replied Morse, still in that same soft, know-it-all tone, “You were across the street, sleeping with Charlie Grainger. You’d planned to spend all evening with him until your husband returned, but your plans were foiled when Mrs. Greene walked in on you, home unexpectedly early because her art class was cancelled. There was a fight, wasn’t there, Mrs. Gavins?”

“I tell you, that’s not true!” cried Mrs. Gavins desperately “I was here all—"

“Mrs. Gavins,” cut in Morse, suddenly loud and blazing in his anger, “you were seen leaving the Greenes’ house the very night of the murder!”

Mrs. Gavins went very pale, her lip starting to tremble. “Who saw me?” she demanded, a slight tremor now clearly evident in her voice.

Morse raised his eyebrows. “Does it matter?” he asked softly. “You were  _ seen _ , Mrs. Gavins. You were seen leaving the house where, that same day, your  _ rival  _ for Charlie Greene’s affections was  _ murdered.” _

Mrs. Gavins looked down at her lap, abashed. After a long pause, she looked up, and her eyes were sparkling with tears. “Evelynn wasn’t supposed to come home,” she whispered. “Charlie promised she would be at her art class all night, that we were safe. And then she found us, and, and…” she swallowed thickly. “Both Evelynn and Charlie were so angry, yelling and screaming at each other, saying all these horrible things… I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was too afraid to stay. I grabbed my clothes and ran.”

“Around what time was this?” asked Morse

“Around 6 pm,” said Mrs. Gavins.

“And what happened for the rest of the night?”

“I stayed here,” she said. “My husband came home around 8, like I said. I saw Charlie leave the house about 7:30, heading down the street. I didn’t notice when he came back.”

“But he did come back?” asked morse.

“Yes, I assume so. I heard loud shouting from across the street late last night, and, and… what sounded like a gunshot.” Mrs. Gavins swallowed nervously. “I didn’t know what to think, I was too worried to say anything, so I didn’t.”

“Have you seen Charlie Greene since?”

Mrs. Gavins shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been too scared to call him.”

“Too scared?” enquired Morse.

Mrs. Gavins nodded, then swallowed. “Charlie… Charlie has a temper,” she said softly. “I… I didn’t want to know what might have happened that night. I was scared for Evelynn, and scared for myself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gavins, you’ve been very helpful,” said Morse, rising from his chair.

“Well, Lewis, this is the  _ fifth  _ person to tell us that Charlie Greene was a danger to his own wife,” said Morse with what Lewis considered an indecent amount of excitement in his voice. The two coppers had just exited Mrs. Gavins’ house, and were meandering back toward the Jag, enjoying a short break from the fall rain. 

Lewis nodded his assent, but was distracted by movement at the Greene’s house across the street. 

“Sir,” he said, catching Morse’s elbow to get the songbird’s attention. Morse gave Lewis a quizzical look, then followed Lewis’s pointing finger across the street to where Charlie Greene was just exiting his house, a box full of clothes and sundries balanced precariously in his arms. He was obviously collecting some possessions, as the house was still a sealed-off crime scene. Slowly, a smile broke across Morse’s face. “Let’s have a word with Mr. Charlie Greene, shall we, Lewis?” he asked, then pulled free from Lewis’s grip and strode across the street, calling out as he went. “Mr. Greene!”

Charlie Greene spun around, almost dropping his box in surprise.

“I’m so glad we caught you,” drawled Morse, coming to a stop in front of Charlie, blocking his way down the front path. Lewis hastily stationed himself at Morse’s shoulder, watching intently. “We just have a few more questions for you, regarding your wife’s death.”

Charlie looked very taken aback, but balanced the box against his hip and shifted to a more comfortable stance. “Of course—how can I help?”

“How long does it take to walk from the White Hart to your house, sir?” asked Morse.

“I dunno, ten minutes?” said Charlie, shrugging. “Why?”

“Your brother said you weren’t with him for quite a stretch of time the night your wife was murdered, Charlie,” said Morse. “He said you spent almost half an hour not at the table with him. More than long enough to walk home, shoot your wife, and walk back to the bar, wouldn’t you say?”

“What?” demanded Charlie, looking panicked. “no, he didn’t.. I was there, with him, all night! I swear! I didn’t kill my wife! I didn’!”

“Well, then, why would Henry say you left?” asked Morse.

“I dunno!” cried Charlie. “I swear, I was there the whole time!”

“We’ll be confirming that,” said Morse. “Oh, and one more thing, sir; please don’t leave town without letting us know? Thank you ever so much.” With that, Morse turned and swept back towards the Jag. Lewis followed, glancing back over his shoulder as he went. Charlie Greene was still standing shell-shocked on the front walk, a look of dawning horror spreading across his face.

* * *

“It’s definitely the husband, Lewis,” said Morse, feeling more and more certain of himself. He and Lewis were settled comfortably in their office, listening to the persistent fall rain drumming against the window panel.

“You sure it couldn’t be the crazy stalker, sir?” asked Lewis, although he did not sound very convinced of his own theory.

“Piers didn’t have the same motive and opportunity that Charlie Greene had, Lewis,” explained Morse in what he hoped was a patient tone. “Why would Gregory Piers want to kill the object of his obsession, Lewis? Greene, on the other hand… he was furious that Evelynn had threatened to leave him, he wanted revenge.”

“Ah, Morse, excellent, I’m glad I caught you!”

Morse glanced up in surprise at being addressed. Max DeBryn was standing in the door, hat tucked under one arm and briefcase in hand.

“What are you doing here, Max?” asked Morse, surprised.

“I was here helping with another case, but I thought I’d drop by the ballistics report on Evelynn Greene while I was in the neighbourhood,” replied Max, proffering a manila folder. Lewis stood and took the folder from Max, eagerly flipping through its contents as he meandered back towards Morse’s desk. Morse scowled impatiently at his sergeant’s distraction.

“Forensics says that the calibre matches a small handgun, and would be a match for Mr. Charlie Greene’s missing revolver,” said Max in response to Morse’s frustrated frown.

Morse glanced significantly at Lewis as the latter looked up from the file, surprised. “Thank you, Max, you’ve been very helpful!” said Morse excitedly. “This confirms my theory that Charlie Greene murdered his wife! This is excellent.”

“I always aim to please, Morse,” said Max sardonically. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” With a final nod, Max left the office.

“So, it was Charlie Greene after all,” said Morse, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

Lewis set the ballistics report down on Morse’s desk, then perched on the edge of the surface himself. “It seems so, sir,” he replied. “Should we go pick him up this evening, then?”

Morse glanced at the clock on the wall, then at his tired sergeant. It was already nearing five. Lewis would appreciate an early evening after the long nights they’d already put in on this case.

Morse shook his head. “No, Lewis, Charlie Greene will keep until morning. Go home, see your family, get some rest.”

Lewis smiled and stood, briefly resting his hand on Morse’s shoulder before crossing back to his own desk to retrieve his coat and jacket. “Alright, sir. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Morse felt a flicker of gratitude along with affection in Lewis’s warm touch, and could not help smiling a little himself. “Goodnight, Lewis,” he said. His sergeant glanced back at the door, smiled, and then made his way towards the car park.

Long after Lewis had gone home Morse remained at his desk, thinking over the Greene case. With the new evidence that Charlie Greene’s revolver had more than likely killed his wife, there was now no doubt in Morse’s mind that Charlie Greene was the guilty party. Tomorrow would see this case closed, once they had brought Charlie Greene in for questioning.

At length, Morse was roused from his musings by a knock at the door. “Come in!” he called, surprised.

Chief Superintendent Strange peered into the office, noting Lewis’s empty desk and Morse’s state of relaxation, feet up on the desk and shirtsleeves rolled up.

“Ah, Morse,” he said, stepping into the room. “Where’s Lewis?”

“I sent him home early, sir,” replied Morse, swinging his feet off the desk and sitting up. “Not much more that could be done tonight.”

“I see, I see,” murmured Strange. He paced the room for a moment, his mind clearly occupied with other thoughts. Morse waited slightly apprehensively for Strange to share what was troubling him.

“So, Morse,” said Strange after a moment, sinking into Lewis’s vacant chair with a sigh. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with this Evelynn Greene case, hmm?”

“Well, it seems fairly straightforward, sir,” replied Morse. “We’ve interviewed the husband, the brother-in-law, the husband’s mistress, and the co-workers. Basically, Evelynn walked in on her husband with another woman, they had a row, and then Charlie Greene shot his wife.”

“So, he has confessed?” asked Strange sharply.

“Well, no, sir, but it’s only a matter of time,” said Morse confidently. “Pathology says that the gunshot that killed Evelynn Greene is a match for her husband’s missing revolver. We were planning on taking Charlie Greene in for questioning tomorrow.”

“Well that will be bloody difficult,” snorted Strange, rising to his feet as he made to leave.

“Why’s that, sir?” asked Morse, confused.

“Because Charlie Greene is dead,” replied Strange bluntly. “Uniform found his body half an hour ago.”


	7. Chapter 7

Turning up the collar of his coat against the stiff breeze, Morse mounted the front steps of Lewis’s house and rang the bell. He thought he heard running feet from within the house, and then the door was flung open to reveal Lyn, smiling a gap-toothed smile at him.

“Inspector Morse!” she cried happily. “are you here for supper?”

Morse could not help returning Lyn’s smile, wishing he could say yes. “I wish I were, Lyn, but I’m here to see your father, could you fetch him for me?” said Morse kindly.

Lyn stepped back to let Morse through the front door, then turned to shout up the stairs. “Dad? Daaad! Inspector Morse is here!”

At Lyn’s shout, Val appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on an old chequered tea towel as she did. “Inspector! What a lovely surprise!” she said, smiling warmly. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lewis, but I’m here to collect your husband for work,” replied Morse apologetically. Just then Lewis appeared in the entry hall, hastily re-tying his tie around his neck. “Sir?” he enquired, stopping in front of Morse.

“We’ve been called out, Lewis,” said Morse regretfully.

Lewis raised his eyebrows, silently asking if Morse could share details. Morse gave a tight shake of his head, indicating to Lewis that he would rather not do so in front of Val and Lyn.

“Alright, I’ll just be a moment,” said Lewis, starting towards the kitchen.

“You can take the sandwich on the counter, love!” Val called after him.

“I’m very sorry for stealing your husband so late at night, Mrs. Lewis,” said Morse.

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Inspector,” Val said kindly. “We know the job comes first!”

Lewis reappeared in the hall, coat on and a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. “Alright sir, I’m ready!” he said.

With a final nod to Val and Lyn, and a strong pang of regret that he could not stay to supper at the Lewises’, Morse turned and led his faithful sergeant out into the cold fall night.

The orange glow of the high-pressure sodium street lamps cast a rather eerie aura over the Greenes’ street as Morse parked the jag outside number 11. The two coppers got out, Lewis turning up his collar against the cold wind as they marched up the front steps. Inside number 11 was all light and movement, PCs and pathology assistants bustling around in confusion and photographing whatever took their fancy. Morse grimaced as he noticed Mrs. McDonnel peering through her net curtains next door, her face alight with curiosity. _Nosy woman_ he thought dourly, dreading the prospect of potentially having to interview her again.

The two coppers entered the sitting room to find almost an exact restage of two mornings ago. Objects were strewn pell-mell across the floor, exactly how the police had left them, this time with the addition of evidence markers. A body, this time Charlie Greene’s, was lying in the middle of the room, limbs splayed, a bloody gunshot wound in his torso. And doctor Max DeBryn was again crouched over the corpse, conducting a thorough examination. As Morse and Lewis entered Max glanced up at them reproachfully. “They should really stop giving you murder cases, Morse,” he greeted them wryly. “You can never seem to get through them without an additional body being found.”

Morse grimaced expressively at Max, causing his old friend to chuckle. “It’s not my fault I end up on such complicated cases, Max!” he protested.

“No, Morse, I’ve made up my mind,” teased Max, clambering to his feet. “You’re bad luck. Lewis, I’d ask for a transfer, if I were you,”

“Ah, that’s alright, sir,” Lewis smiled, amused in spite of himself, it seemed. “At least my job’s never dull.”

Morse cast his sergeant a withering look. “Well, Max, what can you tell me?” he asked, changing the subject to avoid further teasing.

“Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest, relatively recently. He was probably killed within the last five hours,” said Max as he peeled off his gloves. “Oh, and you’ll like this, Morse—this was _not_ the site of the murder!”

“Really?” asked Morse, surprised.

“Really,” confirmed Max. “The bullet went clean through this time, and there’s no bloodstains corresponding to the expected spray pattern in the room. In fact, the relatively small amount of fresh blood present confirms that the victim was moved here _after_ being shot.”

Morse frowned in puzzlement. “Well, do you have any idea where he was killed?”

“That,” said Max, picking up his bag, “is _your_ job, Morse. Post-mortem tomorrow afternoon? Goodnight, gentlemen.” With that, Max strode out the door and into the cold night beyond.

Morse and Lewis looked at each other, dismayed.

Another thorough search of the Greenes’ residence turned up no significant clues as to how Charlie Greene ended up dead in his own sitting room. Lewis theorized that whoever had moved the body had used a rug or tarp to limit the amount of mess, and then taken it away with them when they left. Unless they happened to catch someone in the act of disposing of a bloody, gory, tarp, however, this put them no closer to catching Charlie’s murderer. Both inspector and sergeant were subdued and pensive on the winding drive back to Lewis’s house.

Morse just couldn’t understand it. Who would have a motive to kill Charlie Greene? And what on earth was going to become of his murder investigation now that his chief suspect was dead?

“What happens now?” asked Lewis, his thoughts apparently running on similar lines to Morse’s own. “I mean, we can’t question Charlie Greene anymore.”

“No, indeed, Lewis,” sighed Morse, pulling to a stop in front of the Lewises’ house. “That doesn’t mean that Charlie Greene _didn’t_ murder his wife, it just makes it bloody difficult to prove that he did.”

Lewis unbuckled his seatbelt, but paused before opening the door. “You’re alright, sir?” he asked, looking questioningly at Morse. “You don’t need me to--?”

Morse smiled gently at Lewis’s offer of a feed, but shook his head. “No, I’m alright, Lewis. It’s late. With any luck, we’ll have plenty of time tomorrow, once we’ve solved this case.”

Lewis nodded and opened his door. “Right, then. Goodnight, sir,” he said, stepping out of the jag.

“Goodnight, Lewis,” returned Morse. Lewis smiled briefly, then shut the car door and made his way up the front steps. Morse watched him until he was inside, and the front door was shut behind him before finally beginning his solitary drive home.

In his own sitting room, Morse poured himself a scotch and collapsed with a groan on the sofa. _What a disaster_ he thought, rubbing his face tiredly. His chief suspect was dead, and they hadn’t even managed to get a confession out of him.

_Why on earth would anyone want to kill Charlie Greene_? Morse wondered, closing his eyes and leaning back against the faded cushions. Who could possibly have a motive?

Morse continued to ponder and discard theories as he drained his scotch—another acquired taste developed over years of pretending to be human whenever he could—then slowly prepared for bed. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to get comfortable. _Who would want to kill Charlie Greene?_

Then, it came to him. Morse sat bolt upright, his mind buzzing with excitement. _Piers_. Gregory Piers had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Charlie. Furious at the thought that Charlie had killed the object of his obsession, placed on leave at work, and recently having purchased a hunting rifle, Piers was the perfect candidate for Charlie’s murderer. Morse half considered ringing Lewis to tell him about his brilliant new theory, but then decided against it. It was late, after all. Morse resettled in his bed, closed his eyes, and prepared for sleep, happily anticipating the awed expression on Lewis’s face tomorrow when Morse told him he’d solved the puzzle.

The next morning at the station didn’t go quite as smoothly as anticipated, however. The ballistics results on the weapon that killed Charlie Greene had not come back yet, so Morse could not conclusively prove that it was Piers’ rifle that had done the deed. Furthermore, although Lewis was extremely impressed with his theory, Chief Superintendent Strange was much less so. And, most frustratingly of all, Strange pointed out a gaping hole in Morse’s argument—Charlie Greene still had a relatively solid alibi for Evelynn’s murder from his brother Henry. After all, Henry had never said exactly when Charlie had been gone from their table at the White Hart. If it had been earlier in the evening, Charlie Greene might be in the clear.

Morse slouched at his desk after this deflating interview, moodily glaring at the crossword without really seeing it.

“It still makes sense to me, sir”, Lewis said sympathetically. “Seems understandable to me that Henry and Charlie might have their times mixed up. We could have another talk with Henry, see if that clears things up?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea, Lewis!” said Morse, brightening slightly. “You go check on Henry Greene today, and I’ll interview Piers when uniform brings him in! Also, Lewis, would you be willing to swing by the White Hart and see if they have any CCTV footage that shows the table where Henry and Charlie were sitting that night?”

Lewis looked slightly put out at being assigned the donkey work, but nodded his assent. “Alright sir,” he said, preparing to set out. “Do tell me what happens with Piers today?”

Morse smiled. “Of course, Lewis. Good luck with Henry Greene.”

Lewis nodded briefly in acknowledgement and left the office. Morse watched the door for long seconds after Lewis had gone, already missing him and not quite sure why.

Since uniform had only just headed out to collect Gregory Piers, Morse decided to occupy himself in the interim with perusing the 1983 drugs case notes one last time. Idly flipping through pages of interview transcripts, Morse’s eye was suddenly caught by the name “Charlie Greene”. Pausing to read the passage more carefully, Morse frowned. According to this transcript of the initial interview with Henry Greene, his own brother, Charlie, had been the one that betrayed him to the police. Charlie had been caught in possession of some of the drugs that Henry and Evelynn had been dealing, panicked, and revealed his supplier to his arresting officer. Morse sat back in his chair, running a hand over his face. Could this imply that there were more hard feelings between the two brothers than he had initially thought?

The phone rang shrilly, interrupting Morse’s musings. With a sigh, Morse leaned forward to answer the call.

“Morse here,” he said, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he searched fruitlessly for a pen amidst the clutter of his desk.

“Sir, I’m at the White Hart,” said Lewis, the sound of clinking dishes and chattering voices audible in the background.

“Ah, Lewis, excellent! I just found out something interesting about the 1983 drugs case,” said Morse excitedly, finally locating a pen and a piece of scrap paper. “Apparently it was Charlie Greene that betrayed Henry and Evelynn to law enforcement!”

“What, really?” Morse smiled, pleased with how astonished Lewis sounded at this newest revelation.

“He was caught smoking some of the pot that they’d given him,” Morse continued “—he cut a deal with the arresting officer, said he’d tell them who his dealer was if they lessened his sentence.”

“Wow,” said Lewis, low and impressed. “So Charlie caused lots of trouble for his brother, it sounds like.”

“Yes he did, Lewis,” said Morse. “Charlie Greene was a trouble-maker his whole life, it seems.” Then, remembering the task he had assigned Lewis, he continued “Did you find anything useful at the White Hart?”

“I just went through the CCTV footage with the manager—it shows Charlie and Henry at the table together for the entire time frame of the murder. Charlie never got up long enough to have walked to his house and back,” said Lewis grimly

Morse frowned in extreme puzzlement. “You’re sure, Lewis?”

“Positive, sir,” came the reply.

Morse sighed. This case kept getting more and more complicated. “Well, Lewis, add that to the list of questions you ask Henry Greene today: why he said his brother was gone when he wasn’t.”

“Alright, sir,” said Lewis. “I’ll be off to Wytham Woods, then. I’ll see you when I get back!”

Lewis rang off. Morse put down the phone slowly, trying to puzzle through this worrying new evidence.

Not long after Lewis had departed for Wytham Woods, a young PC knocked on the office door to inform Morse that Piers was in interview room 2. Spirits high with anticipation, Morse went to conduct the interview.

Halfway down the hall, however, Morse was accosted by PC Jones, the constable from the front desk.

“Inspector Morse?” he asked timidly. “There’s a phone call for you, one Mrs. McDonnel.”

Morse cursed silently to himself. _What a busybody_ , he thought. “Tell her I’m busy, and will call her back later.”

PC Jones shuffled his feet nervously. “um, sir, she says it’s really important.”

With an aggravated sigh, Morse relented and followed the PC back to the duty desk.

“Inspector Morse, here.”

“Oh, Inspector, hello! I’m glad I caught you, I have some information I think you’ll find very interesting, it’s about Evelynn Greene…”

“Actually, Mrs. McDonnel, I’m a bit tied up at the moment. Would it be alright if you gave your statement to Police Constable Jones, here?” cut in Morse hurriedly.

“oh…” Mrs. McDonnel sounded extremely put-out. “Yes, I suppose that would be alright.”

“Wonderful, thank you, Mrs. McDonnel. Here’s PC Jones for you. Have a lovely afternoon.” With that Morse handed the phone back to the extremely confused PC, barely concealing his smirk. “Take her statement down, would you? There’s a good man. Bring it to me in my office after I’ve finished with Gregory Piers.”

“Yes, sir,” said PC Jones glumly. Morse quickly made his escape and returned to the interview room.

“Well, Mr. Piers,” began Morse, settling in the chair facing the nervous man and fixing him with his best ice-cold stare. “I’d like you to tell me your whereabouts last night.”

“I was at home, why?” Piers shifted nervously in his chair, toying with the loose trimming on the edge of the table.

“Can anyone confirm that?” asked Morse

“I dunno. What’s this all about?” Piers shot Morse a look that was half anger, half fear, but still seemed unwilling to confess to the murder.

Morse decided to try a different approach. “You own a rifle, sir?”

Piers looked confused at the seeming non-sequitur. “Yeah, just bought one a few weeks ago.”

“Why did you buy a rifle, Mr. Piers?” asked Morse, leaning forward.

“So I could go hunting with my uncle! Why do you care so much?” Piers definitely sounded scared now. Morse felt a sense of satisfaction.

“Please describe your feelings towards Charlie Greene.” Morse continued, intending to further discomfit the nervous man in front of him.

Piers’s nervousness switched to anger in an instant. “He’s a heartless bastard and a sodding drunk. Never liked him.”

“Oh, really? And how did you form that impression?”

“Just the stuff Evelynn used to say. And the things I saw, after he’d hit her.”

“So you’re angry at him for mistreating Evelynn?”

“He was horrible to her, of course I am,” snapped Piers

“And you think he may have killed Evelynn?”

“I bet he did, the bastard,” Piers spat angrily.

“You know what I think, Mr. Piers?” asked Morse in his softest, most reasonable tone, leaning forward and bracing his arms on the table. “I think you were angry with Charlie for killing Evelynn. So angry, in fact, that you decided to do something about it. I think you took your new rifle, tracked down Henry Greene, and shot him.”

Piers stared at Morse in open-mouthed astonishment. “What?” he said, dumbstruck. “Charlie Greene is dead?”

“Shot, with your rifle, Mr. Piers,” said Morse.

Piers gaped at Morse for another moment, then burst out “but that’s ridiculous, I haven’t even bought ammunition for the damn thing yet! Check my purchase history, you’ll see!”

“We know you did it, Mr. Piers. Denying it won’t do any good.”

“Well, I didn’t do it, and I want a lawyer,” said Piers stubbornly, sitting back and crossing his arms. “If you’re going to sit there and accuse me of something I didn’t do, I want a lawyer.”

Morse sighed. It looked like this interview was over.

Morse’s mind worked furiously the whole way back to his office. His chief suspect was dead, and Piers was denying any involvement. He had been so sure that Piers was the guilty party. Morse settled at his desk with a deep sigh. Another dead end. Morse switched on the wireless to the classical station and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to puzzle over the case while he waited for Lewis to return.

* * *

As Lewis drove the winding road out to Wytham Woods, he could not suppress an unreasonable feeling of foreboding. Morse’s theory that Charlie Greene had murdered his own wife seemed in danger of falling apart completely under this new evidence, and Lewis could not think who else may have done the deed.

Frowning, Lewis drew up to the carpark and switched off the engine. The sun had briefly broken through the autumn clouds, causing the trees to cast stark shadows across the wet ground. Despite the sun, the air was still chilly as Lewis exited the car and made his way towards where Henry Greene was just locking up a tool shed on the edge of the woods.

“Mr. Greene?” Lewis called, stopping a few feet away from the man.

“Ah, sergeant, hullo,” said Greene, picking up a large sack. “I’m just going on my rounds, would you care to accompany me?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Lewis assented. His office shoes were not really the best suited for tramping around through the forest, he would have preferred a pair of trainers.

The two men set off along a narrow dirt path, which quickly drew them deep into the heart of the forest. The sun drifted in and out from behind the ominous clouds, so that the two men were walking through an unpredictable landscape of bright patches and dark shadows.

After trekking in silence for over a quarter of an hour, Henry spoke at last. “So, what can I do for you, sergeant?”

“I need to ask you some more questions about the night Evelynn was murdered, Mr. Greene,” said Lewis, stepping carefully over a tree root. “There are some things that aren’t quite adding up.”

Lewis thought he saw Henry Greene flinch before responding in a would-be calm voice. “yeah? What sort of things?”

“Well,” began Lewis, slowing his stride as Greene heaved the sack off his back and began poking in the bushes to the left of their current path. “CCTV footage from the White Hart confirms that Charlie never left the table where the two of you were sitting that night for longer than a few minutes. Why did you say he was gone for a long stretch if he wasn’t?”

Greene froze for a moment, bent over the undergrowth. Then, he slowly straightened, tucking his hands in his pockets, back still turned to Lewis.

“Why’d you lie to us, Henry?” asked Lewis, stopping a few feet behind him.

Greene’s hand moved oddly in his pocket. Lewis frowned at it, but then was distracted by his answer. “I didn’ want to cause trouble, mind,” he said softly. “I just wanted to put you coppers of the scent a bit, was all.”

“Look, Henry,” said Lewis, starting to get impatient. “I understand that you wanted to protect your brother. But lying to the police can be a crime! You should’ve told us the truth.”

Greene let out a soft noise that was part sigh, part wry chuckle. “You’re wrong, Sergeant,” he said, removing his hand from his pocket and turning to face Lewis at last. “It wasn’ my brother I was tryin’ to protect.”

Lewis froze, eyes going wide as his mind flooded with panic. Henry Greene was pointing the missing revolver straight at Lewis’s chest, a grimace of desperate resolution etched on his face.

“It was _you,_ ” Lewis gasped. “ _You_ killed Evelynn?”

“She promised she’d wait for me,” said Greene, eyes wild but gun steady. “She promised she’d wait, while I was in the pen. She was _my_ girl. She promised she was mine.” Greene bared his teeth in a snarl as he continued. “But then, I get out, and what do I find? I find she’s taken up with my own brother. The pair of them, conspirin’ behind my back! Now, you can’t expect me to jus’ take that lyin’ down, can you?”

“What really happened that night, Henry?” asked Lewis, trying to edge away from the shaking, terrified man.

“It was an accident,” whispered Henry, hand trembling worryingly on the trigger of his brother’s revolver. “I went over to see her, right? To try to convince her that Charlie was no good for her, that she should leave him and be with me instead! I promised I’d take care of her, I’d never hurt her, never leave her. She wouldn’ listen. Charlie had poisoned her.” Henry took a shaky breath. “I never meant to hurt her, you have to believe me! I was out of my mind, I knew where I’d left Charlie. He’s been a problem my whole life, and now, now seemed like the moment to fix it! I took his gun. Evelynn was desperate, trying to stop me and… and…”

“you shot her,” murmured Lewis.

“It was all Charlie’s fault! If he hadn’t taken her away from me, none of this would have happened!”

“So why not turn yourself in?” asked Lewis, still trying to use a calm, placating tone of voice. “If it was an accident, why not contact the police?”

“I couldn’ go back to prison,'' gasped Henry. “Charlie was the one who deserved to be in prison, not me!”

“So that’s why you lied to us, to frame your brother?”

“It was only fair!” shouted Henry, his voice and his aim now wavering out of control. “I’d gone to prison because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut! Now it was his turn. It was only right. Evelynn wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for him!”

“But you killed him,” said Lewis.

“He figured it out,” said Henry, letting out a faintly hysterical chuckle. “He figured out I’d lied to the police, he found the gun in my flat. I couldn’ let him tell the police, I couldn’—” Henry broke off, breathing erratically. “I couldn’ go back to prison,” he gasped out at last.

“Come on, Henry, put down the gun,” urged Lewis soothingly, holding out his hand in a placating gesture. “Let’s you and I go back and sort this out, yeah? Just put down the gun.”

Henry Grainger licked his lips, looking panicked and undecided. Then, a steely look of resolution settled on his face, causing a chill of fear to tingle up Lewis’s spine. “I’m sorry, sergeant,” he said, swinging the gun back up. “But I can’t go back to prison. Not this time.”

Lewis barely had time to register the gun pointed at his chest before he was diving desperately to one side as the crack of a gunshot filled the air. Then, all Lewis knew was excruciating pain.

* * *

Morse was becoming impatient. It was nearly five in the evening, and Lewis had not returned from his mission to question Henry Greene.

Just as he was peering out the office window, trying to ascertain if Lewis’s car was in the carpark, someone knocked on his office door.

“Ah, Constable Jones! You have something for me?” asked Morse, turning from the window and moving to reseat himself behind his desk.

“Yes, sir. Doctor DeBryn asked me to bring you the ballistics report on Charlie Greene’s body,” said PC Jones, handing morse a stack of papers. Flipping through it, Morse frowned in frustration. The bullet that had killed Charlie Greene was too small to have come from Piers’ new hunting rifle. In fact, Max had noted, it was much more likely that the bullet came from the same model of gun as Charlie Greene’s missing revolver. At any rate, Piers was definitely off the hook. Morse scowled. Another dead end.

Morse glanced up, finding PC Jones still watching him from the doorway. “Was there anything else, Constable?” he asked. Then, smirking slightly, “How was your chat with Mrs. McDonnel?” asked Morse innocently.

Jones gave Morse a hard, irritated look. “It was extremely lengthy, sir,” he said, annoyance barely concealed in his voice.

Morse snorted. “I thought it might be. Did she have anything interesting to say?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, yes,” said the PC, flipping open his notebook. “She told me she just remembered she saw a strange vehicle on Greene’s street on the night of Evelynn’s murder. And she said she saw the same vehicle again the night Charlie Greene’s body was discovered, parked in front of the Greene’s house.”

Morse frowned, leaning forward in thought. “Did she provide a description of the vehicle?”

“Er, yes, sir,” said Jones, turning the page of his notebook. “She said it was a dark green station wagon, old and beat up with the left tail light out. The second time she saw it she wrote down the plate. Plate is WB55 AFJ.”

“And did you check who owns that car?” asked Morse, still frowning.

“Yes, sir. The car belongs to Henry Greene.”

“ _Henry_ Greene? But, why in the blazes would—"

Morse broke off, feeling as though the breath had been knocked from his lungs as the pieces of the puzzle slotted neatly together, forming a complete yet terrible picture. Charlie Greene’s revolver was used for both murders. Charlie Greene had never left the pub. Henry Greene’s car at Evelynn’s house on the night of the murder, late at night, after Charlie would have been asleep, at almost the exact time Evelynn was murdered. And Henry Greene’s car there again, just before Charlie’s body had been discovered. It hadn’t been Charlie or Piers, after all. It had been Henry. And they’d never recovered the revolver. Meaning Henry Greene still had it. Henry Greene was armed, dangerous, and alone with his sergeant.

“Lewis,” Morse gasped, rising from his seat in panic. Lewis was facing a dangerous murderer, now, alone.

“Sir?” asked the confused PC as Morse half-ran across the office, heading for the door.

“Radio Lewis, see if you can get in touch with him,” snapped Morse, hurrying down the hall with the baffled PC trailing behind him like a dutiful hound. “Now, damn you, hurry!”

Now looking rather alarmed, PC Jones stumbled away as Morse broke into a full sprint, hurtling along the hallways of the station, heedless of the heads that turned to follow his progress with curiosity.

Morse burst into DCS Strange’s office like a hurricane, finding his superior hunched over some paperwork in the spotlight glow of a solitary desk lamp. “You have to help me,” Morse gasped, panic and exertion making it hard to speak. “Call a search and rescue team. We have to find Lewis, NOW!”

Strange looked up, startled. “Morse? What the devil are you talking about?”

“Lewis!” Morse practically shouted, pacing about the room in agitation. “Lewis has gone to look for Henry Greene, alone, and Greene’s the murderer! Greene has a gun! We have to find them!”

Morse turned at the far wall to see the blood draining from Strange’s face as he comprehended the situation. “My god,” he breathed.

“Please, sir, we have to look for Lewis NOW,” begged Morse, striding to Strange’s desk and bracing both hands on the surface. “Please,” he repeated, and as Strange searched his face Morse allowed a tiny fraction of his terror for Lewis to show in his expression.

After a long second, Strange’s own expression hardened into one of resolution, and he pushed himself up from his desk. “Get yourself ready, Morse,” he said, reaching for his phone. “I’ll get us a search team. We leave in ten minutes.”

* * *

Lewis knew he was in trouble. Greene had fled, presuming that Lewis was dead or dying upon the forest floor. To be perfectly honest, Lewis wasn’t sure that he wasn’t dying. His right side was on fire, a fire that throbbed with each beat of his heart. Blood was flowing hot and sticky across his torso, soaking his shirt and causing it to cling to his skin. He waited, still, upon the ground for long minutes until the sound of Greene’s footsteps had faded to silence. He had to get out of here. With an enormous effort, Lewis rolled onto his good side, then slowly, painfully, struggled to his feet, gripping the nearest tree to hold himself upright.

The silence of the woods was eerie and complete. No birds sung; no small creatures rustled through the undergrowth. All Lewis could hear was the pounding of his own frantic heart in his ears, the breath rasping painfully in and out of his lungs, and the staggering progress of his steps as he lurched from one trunk to the next, trying desperately not to get lost amongst the suddenly ominous trees.

His side burned like fire, like acid. The pain was all-consuming, making it almost impossible to move. He could barely remember which direction he needed to go. Fear alone drove him on, fear for his life.

He had to keep going, had to get back to the car. But the trees were swooping sickly around him, spinning together into a blur of colour. Lewis tried to keep staggering forward, but found himself on his knees among the damp leaves. He managed to crawl a few more yards before his strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Shaking, gasping for breath, Lewis rolled onto his good side and continued to try to staunch the flow of blood with his already soaked jacket. Morse would find him.

Lewis tried to focus on his breathing, desperately fighting to stay conscious. The wound in his side was like a burning brand, the pain so intense as to distract from almost everything else. Morse had to find him.

Time stretched long, the shadows lengthening into cold pools of darkness upon the forest floor around him. Please, God, let Morse find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the horribly long delay in posting this chapter! I hope you enjoy!  
> I did a decent amount of research on UK firearms laws as I wrote these past chapters, so I hope that this is feasible for the year the story takes place (1988, before the Firearms Amendment Acts 1997)


	8. Chapter 8

The world felt oddly surreal to Morse as he sped towards Wytham Wood in the jag, the evening sun casting a strange, bloody light across the interior and across Chief Superintendent Strange’s face in the passenger seat.

“What happened this afternoon, Morse?” asked Strange, flinching slightly as Morse took a tight curve at high speed.

“I found out I was wrong, totally wrong about this case!” cried Morse. “It wasn’t Charlie who killed Evelynn, it was his brother, Henry. Henry went over to the Greene’s house after taking Charlie home from the pub that night. Mrs. McDonnel saw his car. He probably went to talk to Evelynn, to try to convince her to leave Charlie for him.”

“Do you think he intended to kill her?” asked Strange sharply.

“I doubt it,” bit out Morse, weaving into the right-hand lane to pass a lorry. “But, you know how crimes of passion are, sir.”

“And then Henry Grainger lied to you to foul up the investigation.”

“Yes. He knew his brother had mistreated Evelynn, and that therefore it would be fairly easy to frame him for her murder.”

“And then?” asked Strange, wincing but not commenting as the needle of the speedometer touched eighty.

“Charlie must have found out, somehow. I’m not entirely sure what tipped him off, but Henry panicked and killed him, too. Maybe it was all the questions we asked Charlie the last time we spoke with him, which was based on the false information Henry gave us. I guess we may never know.”

The two old friends drove in silence for a few minutes.

“If only I hadn’t been so blind!” Morse burst out at length. “If I’d just paid more attention, Lewis wouldn’t… he wouldn’t…”

Strange reached over and gripped Morse’s arm reassuringly. It was a mark of the strength and duration of their friendship that Morse did not shake Strange’s hand off, but rather savored the comforting touch. “He’ll be alright, matey,” said the Chief Superintendent softly. “We’ve been through plenty of rough spots before. We’ll get through this one, too.”

Morse nodded, throat too tight for speech. The passing trees cast jagged shadows through the cab as the two coppers sped on towards Wytham Woods.

The sun was sinking low in the western sky as the search party gathered at the edge of Wytham Wood. Gordon, a burly old sergeant, began giving instructions to the assembled men.

“Right, standard grid search pattern. Everyone stay in radio contact, and call for the medical team if you need it. The team will be waiting here by the carpark.”

“Morse, are you sure?” asked Strange, catching Morse by the sleeve of his coat as he started to follow the men into the woods. “You could stay here. You sure you want to go out looking?”

Morse gazed into his boss’s earnest face. He knew Strange was only trying to save him pain and heartache. As kind as his intentions were, he simply didn’t understand. Morse had to go.

“I have to find him, sir,” he said desperately.

Strange searched Morse’s pained face for a moment, then nodded in resignation and released his arm. “Alright. Be careful, Morse.”

Morse nodded once, then turned his back on Strange and took up his position on the edge of the wood. On Gordon's mark, the men stepped forward into the dark, looming trees.

The woods were eerily silent except for the rustling of Morse’s footsteps and the calls of the search team, gradually growing further apart as the men spread out through the trees. Morse’s breath rose in a fog in front of his face each time he shouted his sergeant’s name. “Lewis!” he cried. “Lewis, where are you?!” Another dozen paces, then another call. Slowly, methodically, Morse wove his way deep into the ominous shade of the obscuring trees. The primary markers of time passing were his crunching footsteps and his periodic, unanswered shouts. Every so often one of the other men’s voices would break the silence, rough and crackling across the radio tucked in Morse’s pocket. Each time, the report was the same. No sign of Lewis yet.

Twilight was falling in earnest now, the warm glow of light leeching steadily away from the western horizon as darkness pervaded the forest like fog. Morse doggedly continued his search, calling out to Lewis and then waiting with bated breath for a reply. Each echoing silence after his shout was like a hand squeezing his heart a little more tightly. The temperature continued to drop, causing Morse’s breath to rise in clouds of steam before his eyes, making it harder to see the forest floor in front of him. “Lewis!” he screamed. “Lewis!”

Then—had he imagined it?—a faint noise off in the woods to his left. Morse veered left and began to jog through the trees, shouting again “Lewis! Are you there?!”

“…here…” came the faint reply. Adrenaline coursed through Morse as he broke into a sprint, careening through the twilight woods. And then, suddenly, there was a prone figure curled on the ground a dozen yards in front of him, the dirtied white of a shirt almost glowing in the faint evening light. “Lewis!!” Morse cried in relief, racing to cover the last few yards separating him from his sergeant. “Lewis, are you alright? Oh, god…” Morse broke off, stumbling to a stop as he got a good look at the collapsed figure in front of him. Lewis’s skin was ghostly pale, streaked with mud and blood. He was lying curled on his side, shivering, clutching his suit jacket to his middle. There was blood on his hands, blood on the jacket, and dark crimson stains on his dirty white shirt. At the sound of Morse’s approach his blue eyes flickered open, struggling to focus on Morse’s face. Fear and relief warred for control of his features.

“…Sir?” asked Lewis faintly. “You’re…here?”

“Yes, Lewis, I’m here,” Morse replied gently, fighting to keep his own fear in check as he knelt beside the fallen man. “It’s alright now, you’re safe.” Morse reached out and softly touched his sergeant’s face. Lewis’s skin was like ice against his fingers. “What happened, Lewis?” asked Morse.

Lewis allowed his eyes to drift closed. “Shot,” he mumbled. “Found Greene, he shot me.”

Morse’s insides suddenly felt as icy as Lewis’s skin. “Where did he shoot you, Lewis?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even while panic and nausea clawed at his insides.

In answer, Lewis let his suit jacket fall away from his right side, revealing a mess of blood above his right hip bone. Fresh blood was still oozing slowly from the gaping wound.

Morse swallowed thickly, trying to force down the bile that had risen in his throat at the sight of the injury. He had to be strong for Lewis. “I see,” he managed at last.

Lewis’s eyes were still closed, his breathing shallow and his hands limp as he shivered on the forest floor. “’Least he’s not a very good shot, else I’d be dead.”

A shard of ice seemed to pierce Morse’s heart at these words. God, how careless he had been. He could have sent Lewis to his death, all because of his own arrogance and near-sightedness. Carefully, Morse picked up Lewis’s jacket from where he had dropped it and pressed it back over the still-bleeding wound. Lewis hissed in pain at the pressure, his body tensing on the forest floor. “Come now, Lewis!” Morse chided. “We have to stop the bleeding! Just put your hand there… that’s it.” Even with Lewis’s hand back upon the jacket, Morse let his fingers linger longer than was strictly necessary, attempting to warm Lewis’s frozen hands with his own. Lewis’s eyes were open now, and he was gazing up at Morse with a look of complete trust in his eyes. The shard of ice in Morse’s heart twisted painfully.

One hand still resting on the jacket covering Lewis’s wound, Morse reached for his radio and called for a medic. The confirmation came almost instantly. A medic would be with them as soon as possible. This done, Morse set the radio aside and returned his attention to his pale sergeant, softly resting a hand against Lewis’s neck to check his pulse. Not as strong as he’d like. “You’ll be alright, Lewis, the medical team are on their way,” soothed Morse, stroking Lewis’s neck softly, hoping Lewis did not notice how his fingers trembled. “How do you feel?”

Lewis’s eyes fluttered shut as he shivered, then winced. “…cold…” he whispered.

Without thinking, Morse stripped his coat from his shoulders, wrapping it gently around Lewis. Then, careful to pain his wound as little as possible, Morse gathered Lewis to his chest, holding him close in an attempt to keep him warm. “It’s alright, Lewis, I’ve got you now,” he murmured softly, running his hands across Lewis’s shoulders to comfort him. Still shivering, Lewis let his head fall sideways against Morse’s shoulder. “Just hold on, we’ll have you away from here soon. You’re alright now.”

Lewis pressed his nose into the hollow of Morse’s collar bone, seeking out warmth as a cat seeks sun. “I know, sir,” he rasped into Morse’s shirt. “I know, ‘cause you’re here.”

Morse’s heart contracted painfully at the words. How could Lewis have such faith in him? He hadn’t been with Lewis to keep him safe; he’d sent him on a dangerous mission alone. But, still, he was here now, and if he was certain of anything, it was that he had to protect his sergeant. Instinctively, Morse pressed his lips to the top of Lewis’s head. The smells of blood, gunpowder, and decaying leaves masked most of Lewis’s usual scent, leaving only a faint hint of petrichor and cedar behind.

Lewis was slowly beginning to stop shaking, but his skin was still far too cold. Morse adjusted his coat more securely around Lewis and pulled him closer, shielding him from the frosty evening. He’d be the gossip of the station for weeks, he expected, once the medical team found the songbird DCI cuddling his sergeant like a love-sick teenager, but that didn’t matter. He had to keep Lewis safe, and gossip was a small price to pay for that.

The darkness of the forest was now almost complete. The temperature was still dropping, and a cold wind was starting to blow. Now Morse too was starting to shiver as he cradled Lewis, trying to lend him what little heat he could. Lewis, on the other hand, was growing alarmingly still, his breath coming in shallow rasps. Morse was beginning to panic, the shard of ice in his heart slowly freezing its way outwards. How long had it been since he’d sent for the medical team? And how long would it take the team to reach them?

“It’s alright, Lewis,” Morse murmured, although he was not sure his sergeant was still conscious to hear him. “Just try to stay awake. Help will be here soon.”

“…tell me something happy, sir?” whispered Lewis softly.

Something happy? Morse cast around, trying to force his mind to a better place than this. His thoughts settled on sunny summer days at pubs by the river with Lewis, the two of them sitting close together as they discussed a case or, sometimes, Lewis rolling his eyes at Morse as the songbird tried to educate him on literature, music, or art. “Have you ever read any Shelley, Lewis?” Morse asked at length.

“Don’t think so, sir,” murmured Lewis. Morse glanced down at his sergeant. His eyes were closed, and his dirty, bloody face was paler than ever in the dark night.

“Really, Lewis, what did they teach you in school?” Morse chided with mock severity.

Eyes still closed, Lewis smiled against Morse’s chest. “Dunno, sir,” he replied, then shivered.

Morse carefully resettled Lewis against him, pulling his jacket more tightly around them. “Well, Lewis, Shelley is an essential part of any man’s education. Here, let me see if I can remember any…” He paused, casting around for the half-remembered verses, and then recited:

_Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!_

_Bird thou never wert,_

_That from Heaven, or near it,_

_Pourest thy full heart_

_In profuse strains of unpremeditated art._

_Higher still and higher_

_From the earth thou springest_

_Like a cloud of fire;_

_The blue deep thou wingest,_

_And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest._

_In the golden lightning_

_Of the sunken sun,_

_O'er which clouds are bright'ning,_

_Thou dost float and run;_

_Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun._

Morse glanced down again. Lewis had fallen terribly still against his chest. He pressed a hand anxiously to Lewis’s neck. There. A faint pulse still beat. There was time yet. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, Morse continued to recite in a low murmur:

_The pale purple even_

_Melts around thy flight;_

_Like a star of Heaven,_

_In the broad day-light_

_Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,_

_Keen as are the arrows_

_Of that silver sphere,_

_Whose intense lamp narrows_

_In the white dawn clear_

_Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there._

Morse broke off as he heard the crashing of footsteps, growing closer in the darkness. “Inspector??” someone was shouting. “Inspector Morse??” The medical team.

“Here!!” Morse called back urgently, fumbling one-handed for his torch. Finally grasping the device, he began signalling an SOS call, sending three short, three long, and three short bursts of light up into the air to illuminate the trees above. Before long he could see the light of more torches scattered amongst the trees, homing in on him and Lewis as he continued to shout.

Then, suddenly, Morse and Lewis were no longer alone in the dark woods. Medics were surrounding them, clamouring, pulling Lewis away from him to be lifted onto a stretcher. Lewis remained limp and still, eyes closed and face terribly pale in the darting, flickering light of the medics’ torches. Morse’s jacket was still wrapped around him, stained dark with blood. When they began to move through the trees Morse stayed by Lewis’s side, one hand gripping his sergeant’s lifeless fingers even as they moved across the uneven ground. It felt as though the cold fear that had started in Morse’s heart was spreading to his mind, numbing and slowing his thoughts. All he knew was that he had to stay with his sergeant.

Finally, after what felt like an endless journey, they found themselves back at the carpark. The vehicles they had left behind what felt like hours ago were bathed in the flashing red and white light of an ambulance’s strobes. The back of the ambulance was open, waiting to receive Lewis. Before Morse could protest, he felt his sergeant being yanked away from him. Morse let out an involuntary cry at the separation, stumbling a few steps forward. His hand felt so cold and empty without Lewis’s to hold. Lewis’s stretcher was loaded into the ambulance. Morse could see in the bright, fluorescent light of the interior that his coat was still draped across his sergeant’s torso. At least Lewis still had some part of him to hold on to. The doors of the ambulance slammed shut and the vehicle peeled away into the night, sirens wailing. Morse was left alone, breath rising in clouds of steam in front of his face, with nothing but darkness, cold, and fear to keep him company.

“Morse?” asked Strange, coming up slowly behind him. “Are you alright?”

Morse could not find the words to respond, or the energy to turn around to face Strange’s gaze. Fear was building to a nauseating, horrible crescendo in his chest as he started to shiver in the cold night. He wanted to ask Strange for reassurance, wanted to scream, wanted to cry. And yet, all that came out of his mouth was “Lewis has my jacket.” He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. It was small, scared and empty. He sounded completely lost.

Wordlessly, Strange held out a hand to Morse, palm up. Morse fished in his pocket for his keys, abstractly glad that he had kept them in his trousers pocket instead of his coat pocket. He dropped the keys into his old friend’s hand. “Come on, Morse” said Strange softly, placing a palm on Morse’s back and propelling him towards the jag. 

Strange climbed in the driver’s seat while Morse took the passenger seat, dimly recognizing that Strange was correct, he was in no state to drive. Strange started the engine and pulled the jag back onto the main road, following the route the ambulance had just taken. Even as Wytham Woods vanished behind them, Morse could not help but feel that the cold, dark fear of the woods permeated the car, even now. His heart still felt as though it were filled with ice, making it difficult to breathe. Morse had never been a religious sort, but as the headlights cut bright stripes through the night he closed his eyes and prayed. _Please, God, let Lewis be alright. I don’t know how I’d survive without him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry was inspired by a line of Morse’s in Collateral by thedevilchicken: "It's only sex, for God's sake. I'm not going to tie you up and read you Byron."  
> Morse recites “Ode to a Skylark” by Percy Shelley


End file.
